Melodies of My Mind
by Rovenosovene
Summary: Moved from misc musicals to here. Contains elements of Lereaux's, Webber's and Kay's versions of Phantom... Doubt is a terrible feeling. Especially when there is a life resting on the decision that you doubt making.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Christine

Doubt is a terrible feeling. Especially when there is a life resting on the decision that you doubt making. I made a decision, and now after a year, I feel the cold pang of doubt knock against my heart like a mourning bell. I've nearly driven myself mad trying to justify the actions that I took a year ago, down in the cellars of the Opera House.

I was so young... I guess I still am very young, and yet I feel as though I have aged a hundred years in these passed months. I was afraid. Afraid of _him_... No... on second thought, I was not afraid of him... I was afraid of the way I felt when I was with him. I feared the way my heart beat so violently against my chest that I was sure it would rip my body apart. I feared the effect he had over me. The dramatic transition of my voice from mediocrity to ... well, I don't even know what my voice is now... My voice has brought audiences to their feet, and like some strong opiate has thrust my soul into a dream world of music... Music is my drug... but drugs can be dangerous.

I have been such a child! Too naive and innocent to recognise the love that I felt for him. What I took to be fear at the time was nothing more that the first tremblings of a love too intense for my own chaste heart to comprehend. My God, I must have killed him with my stupidity! My disgusting, angelic, naivety! At the time I thought that I wanted what I had with Raoul... A simple, ordinary, respectful relationship with my tall, handsome suitor... I was so wrong...

I did not marry Raoul. After that night by the lake, even though I was, at the time, so relieved to be free, somewhere deep inside myself, I kept finding excuses not to marry him. It's been like this for a year now. He pines for me so, and yet I have become increasingly numb to his unfailing devotion. I feel nothing when I am around him... None of the heat that I felt for Erik... There was a time when I would have taken this lack of constant emotional turmoil to be a blessing... but now... now our relationship is bordering on the monotonous.

I lay in bed now, watching the early morning rays penetrate the delicate sheers that hang across my window. I often wonder what has become of Erik... I have not sung at the Opera since the first and only performance of Don Juan Triumphant, and have dared not even return to the building itself, let alone the dressing room where we first met. At first, this act of restraint was out of respect for Raoul, but now I find that it is out of fear that he may no longer be there... I don't think I could withstand the blow of kneeling next to that mirror and hearing no answering whisper to my pleas.

I reach over to my bedside table and retrieve the small brass key that opens the top drawer. I haven't used this key in a year and I'm surprised at how easily it turns in the hole, showing no sign of age or stiffening. As I pull open the small drawer, memories come flooding back to me.

"_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Lead me, save me from my solitude..."_

His hand extended towards me and my heart beat wildly within my chest...

"_Say you'll want me with you here beside you. Anywhere you go let me go too..."_

He opened his palm to reveal a simple, gold wedding band. Beautifully simple... He took my hand and, with all the tenderness and love of the world placed the ring devotedly on my finger. Unconsciously, I found myself doing the same right now, imagining his face above me as I gently fingered the precious band.

"_Christine, that's all I ask of..."_

A knock on my door awakens me from my reverie. As soft as the tapping was, it sounds like thunder inside my head. I struggle back to my senses and slam the drawer shut hastily. The door opens a crack and a kind, pleasant face appears around the corner. Madame Ballamont was hired by Raoul about eight months ago to wait on me. She was a kindly soul but often received the nastier side of my personality for her efforts. I was not accustomed to being waited upon.

"Excuse me Mademoiselle, but the Viscount is here, and requests an audience." she said graciously.

Yes, I'll bet he requests an audience. Only Raoul would ask to see me as if I were a queen, and I can't help but wonder what precious bauble he has brought me today, or what exotic picnic he has arranged for us this afternoon. Oh, it was kind of him, yes, but I just cannot bring myself to appreciate such material gifts. Even his love seemed to sometimes focus too much around possession and social appearance. He always insisted on bringing me to his family's soirees and shamelessly boasted about my vocal endeavours.

"I'm proud of you" he protested when I once addressed this subject with him.

He was proud of me... Who could blame a man for being proud of his lovely young fiancee? Who on this earth would shy away from his excessive compliments and strangling devotion... I would, and I have.

With a curt nod to Madame Ballamont, I venture meekly out from under the warmth of my sheets. I won't rush myself to get dressed. It's still early in the morning and I sincerely doubt whether Raoul would complain about my taking a moment to make myself presentable.

Finally I make my way downstairs to the small drawing room across the hall. I enter quietly, calm and composed as usual. Raoul stands nobly by the mantle, patiently fingering his pocket watch. He looks up when he sees me enter.

"Good morning, my dear!"

His voice is a little too cheerful for a casual good morning. He takes my right hand in his and I feel his lips gently caress my skin. I pull away a little too soon and sense the mild contempt in his face. I allow him to lead me to the chesterfield where we sit a respectable distance apart under the mindful watch of my day maid.

"You're rather pale this morning. Christine, have you not been sleeping well?"

He always addresses me with such infuriating stiffness as though his entire family were watching us. He always speaks so properly and with such maddening civility that I sometimes wish I could just slap him to raise a temper. I almost wish that he would just cry or scream or laugh uncontrollably... Something! Something other than this infernal gallantry that he never seems to dismiss from his personality.

"I'm fine Raoul." I answer shortly.

He shifts his eyes apprehensively around the room as though searching for a topic of conversation. This, I have come to know, is a habit of his whenever there is a subject he wishes to avoid for the moment. Today, however, his unfortunate gaze came to rest upon my left hand... My left hand, where I had unconsciously placed Erik's single token of unflinching love... Sensing his attention, I hastily bury my hand in my skirts, but to no avail. The damage has already been done and he grabs hold of my wrist and pulls my fingers towards his face.

"Raoul..." I have no idea what exactly I intend to say after that, but I had to attempt some kind of explanation.

"It's _his_ isn't it?" he snarls accusingly.

I have nothing to do but nod resignedly and lower my eyes from that horribly pained look on his face. Somehow, after all of the hurtful thoughts that have been running through my head this morning about Raoul, I now feel only horrible shame at having put him through this. I should have ended it months ago and not dragged him cruelly through this dream world.

What happened after that horrible realization, I can only vaguely recall. He spoke softly to me, kissed me tenderly and walked out my door. I sat quite still for a moment in silence. Then, I ventured to the window and watched his tall figure fade away from my vision. He did not slouch, or appear outwardly to be anything but fine. Always the composed and civil gentlemen.

A single tear was all that I shed for Raoul on that day. A single tear that slid helplessly down my cheek and dropped unnoticed to the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Christine

I watched helplessly as Meg opened the door in front of me and stood aside to let me enter. I paused tremulously for a long moment to stair straight ahead through the doorway and into the enormous mirror that hung across the room. I saw my own white reflection stare ominously back at me. This was a bad idea... I should turn back now and run...

"Christine?" Meg's voice penetrated my thoughts and brought me back to my senses. "Go on in Christine."

I could not enter that room... I should not under any circumstances put myself through this turmoil again... I could not enter... but I also could not turn back now... I took a deep breath and crossed the threshold.

It was cold inside, but it was not the chill that caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. There are so many ghosts in that room... in more ways than one. The air itself seemed to hold particles of magic that pricked and stung my exposed skin with venomous precision.

"Welcome home, Christine" said the soft voice from behind me.

It took me a moment to realize that I had been holding my breath all that time.

"Thank you Meg." I replied distractedly.

"Rehearsals start tomorrow at noon by the way." Meg casually picked up several of my bags and hoisted them onto the writing desk as she spoke to me.

"Rehearsals?" The word seemed utterly foreign to my ears at that moment.

"For the new production silly" she laughed good naturedly. "The new management were quite ecstatic to have you back in the cast Christine... you know business has been rather bad since both you and Carlotta left the Opera Populaire. What is a company, after all, without a reigning diva?."

"New management?" I asked.

"Why yes!" replied Meg. "Didn't you know? Andre and Firman left only a week after yourself. Far too much for them to handle, I'm afraid." I sensed a wry smile on Meg's face as she discussed the previous management.

"Indeed" is all I could manage to say. My eyes wandered hopelessly over the surfaces of my old dressing room. My gaze took in every inch of the room... except the mirror. I would not look any further into that mirror...

"Although, I should tell you, there were some people in the company who were quite horrified when they heard you were coming back. I'm sure you can't blame them yourself Christine. Everyone is so superstitious in this place, and with what happened last season..." Meg stopped mid sentence as she met my gaze on a small, delicate object lying on the floor.

I bent down with mounting anticipation to pick up the bud that lay on the floor beside the desk... It couldn't be... It couldn't be one of Erik's roses... My fingers reached the petals and they instantly crumbled away...

Yes... one of Erik's roses... but one which had been dead for quite some time now... A year would be my guess. With great care, I lifted the stiffened rose from the carpet and placed it tenderly on a shelf. The black, satin ribbon still shone in the flickering candlelight.

"Thank you Meg." I said through my on coming tears. "I can unpack the rest myself."

I did not take my eyes off the rose as Meg silently shut the door behind her, enclosing me for the first time in a year, in that deafening silence of my dressing room.

It has been a month since that moment. That monumental moment of homecoming... and yet I still have not addressed the mirror. There is a stony silence between us. An understanding that we will address each other only when the time is right...

I fear that mirror. It has been the topic of so many of my nightmares. How many times in my dreams have I sunk to the floor before its smooth surface? Beat my hands against the glass? Called out his name in anguish? Countless... I have done these things countless times, and always without the response that I so desperately need to hear...

Tonight will be my first performance on this stage since Don Juan... I have put everything that I possess into this production. I have worked myself to the bone during rehearsals and used every technique that Erik ever taught me. If there was ever a time for me to call upon my Angel of Music... it was now.

From across the room, I stare heatedly at the mirror before me. My legs feel like lead as I drag myself towards it...

"Angel of Music..."

Despite my incessant practice over the past month, this particular tune is lost in my voice, and I crack with repressed emotion.

"... I denied you..."

This is a duet... a lovely duet that Erik and I used to sing to each other with such passion and devotion. Tonight, there is no answering voice... I wait a long moment for something... anything that will let me know he is there... Nothing...

I feel physical pain. My legs can no longer support me and I crumble to the ground with a cry of despair. My flailing hand comes to rest on the cold, smooth, glass of the mirror...

"Erik..." My sobs are barely audible to my own ears, and yet I know that if he were there, he could hear me... "Erik..." Silence... "ERIK! PLEASE!" I shout desperately into the gloom.

My entire being is bursting with emotion and yet I feel so little. I am completely consumed by that one, guttural, instinctive passion for love...

There is no one there... He is gone... and I will never see him again.

With one last retching sob, I pull myself upwards and leave the room... I have a duty tonight... Tonight, even if he cannot hear me... I sing for him...


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Erik

I have walked this passageway so many times... So many times in sleep and in waking. Of late, my trips down this particular route have become so frequent that I am hardly able to distinguish them from the fervent wanderings that I encounter in my sporadic dreams...

It is not always at the same time that I go - sometimes I visit that shrine during the day, and sometimes in the dark and miniscule hours of the morning. I dress finely in my best clothes, as if unconsciously I intend on meeting her there. It's all unconscious... I dress as if in a trance, pulling on my black, leather gloves and securing that accursed mask to my deformed face. The cloak is always last... it billows around me, enveloping me in the darkness that I have grown to relish so deeply.

The journey is slow, but never monotonous... Every stroke of the oar through the murky canals of my kingdom is a gasp of music, and every pulsing footstep echoes a melodic rhythm through my body.

I reach that final, cavernous landing with dull anticipation... So many memories flood back through my mind... How many times had I approached that doorway to the real world and met my Angelic pupil there? Waiting patiently behind the mirror for her dark tutor... There has long since been only darkness before my eyes on that landing...

I sometimes stand for hours behind that mirror... How bitingly ironic it is that the object that I hate so much, that illusive, painfully truthful mirror, is also the instrument that has brought me the only happiness in the world that I have ever known. That single plate of reflective glass has allowed me to see the true ugliness and horror of my own face, but also the beautiful simplicity of hers... hers...

Tonight, I dress hastily... For some unfortold reason, I am more anxious than usual to make my way to that mirror... to gaze dejectedly on that darkened, and emptied room... The journey tonight is not slow, and my heart beats out of tune with the music that I usually feel surrounding me. Today, my heart beats a different rhythm... one sporadic and chaotic. It is a tempo that I have not felt in a long time... not since...

As I turn the corner and step up onto the last corridor before the secret entrance to Christine's dressing room, I am almost floored with shock to see a light flickering ahead of me... No... There has not been a light there since she left... After the infamous abduction of the young diva and the whispered rumours of the Opera Ghost's role in the whole affair, none of the devoutly superstitious company members wanted to use the now abandoned dressing room. So, it has remained empty since that fateful performance of my life's work... Empty, until now that is.

I fight the internal emotions of hope that begin to well up inside of me... No.. it is only one of the curious little ballet girls on a dare from her playful little friends... What a dare it must be for one to enter the infamously haunted dressing room of the Phantom... The Phantom...

I walk with quiet determination down that stone corridor, staring fixedly ahead at the warm glow emanating from the mirror before me. That warmth is rather unnerving to my eyes which are so accustomed to the darkness of the labyrinth in which I make my home. There are shapes moving in the candlelight beyond the mirror... not child like shapes... they have more height than a couple of ballet girls... Anticipation begins to hammer on my chest like a drum. I force myself to halt in my steps and lean weakly against the wall...

It's nonsense, Erik... Nonsense! She's gone... you are dreaming... there is no one in that room for you...


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Erik

Why I put myself through such agony, I will never know. I knew that by allowing that meddlesome ray of hope to seep into my mind, I was only preparing myself for the complete despondency that would inevitably follow. _It was not her..._ I knew that it could not be her that had brought light back into that long-darkened pathway... and yet I felt that I must know for sure... I continued that fateful journey. Step by step - heart racing and blood churning - down the deep, dark, stillness of that cold corridor.

The images ahead of me were blurred, but at that point I did not know if it was from my own veil of tears or the sudden adjustment that my eyes made from darkness to light. As I drew nearer, time seemed to expand in its very nature. Each echo of my footfall resounded around me for an eternity, and with each inhale, I felt age bear down on me like a shadow... I approached the mirror... and fell helplessly to the ground in awe of the sight that lay before my eyes.

I did not address her that night, nor any night after that, and she, in turn did not address me... Of course, there was no way of her knowing of my presence, but her determination to avoid recognition of that mirror in general told me very clearly that she was not attracted to the possibility that I may still be awaiting her call. After all... she made her choice and I have respected that decision with all the pride that I could muster...

For weeks, as I watched her, horrible thoughts plagued my mind. I cursed my own weak soul for not being able to withstand one night without visiting her room. I cursed that boy for taking her away in the first place, and above all, I cursed her... I cursed her for returning to this place... this place where we once shared such union and exultation though music... this place where I, for the first time in my being, experienced happiness... How could she torture me so? Why would she return here only to ignore the past that emanates through the very air of this room?

I watch her tonight, as I have every night for the past month, in such mind numbing agony that I can barely breathe. I am slumped on the cold stone ground behind the mirror, eyes fixed on that form that haunts me in sleep and wake. But tonight, something is different... Tonight... She speaks...

"Angel of Music..." Her pristine voice was barely audible amid the incessant drumming of my own heart. "... I denied you..."

Wait... This is not the voice that I remember. That tantalizingly pure and flawless instrument that astounded audiences and entranced my own stone heart. This was the voice of... pain... yes there is no other word to describe it... Pain emanated through those hauntingly simple notes and emotion cracked like a whip through the surrounding silence. I could not begin to comprehend what may have caused my Angel such anguish...

"Erik..." she sobs weakly.

I can barely believe my own ears, thinking for sure that this is simply one of my own crazed and fantastical manifestations. Erik you fool! Snap out of this! You are driving yourself crazy! Haven't you learned once before not to chase after a dream?

"Erik..."

Slowly, comprehension dawns... She cries for me... and yet I cannot find the strength to echo that beckoning call. My own muscles have turned on me and I am paralysed with emotions that I cannot even begin to interpret... I long so much to answer that cry... that cry that has haunted my dreams for so long... I watch in torment as she slumps down before the mirror, her tiny hand pounding helplessly on the glass... There is only an inch of matter that lies between her and I. The surface is so thin that I'm sure if I were to touch it, her warmth would easily penetrate it's cool exterior.

I watch in wonder as she slowly lifts herself upward... glancing with hollowed sorrow at the glass before her... "No! Wait!" I long to scream, but I am still incapable of unlocking my frozen vocal chords... She turns slowly, and sadly, and leaves the room.

I sit for a very long time, gaping in stunned silence into the empty room ahead of me... Was I dreaming, or did that actually just happen? Did she not just call out my name? Address me as though she were aware of my presence? Did her voice not bleed longing to hear my own response? There was only one way to be sure... For the first time, in over a year, The Phantom would attend a performance at the Opera Populaire...


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Christine

_"We'll try the final scene from Aida..."_

His voice echoed in my head as I drifted lazily in a haze of nostalgia.

"_... A young girl choosing to be entombed with her lover, preferring to die in his arms below the ground rather than face life without him..." _

I remember every single lesson that Erik ever gave me - even in those moments of trance like serenity, where I was aware only of the sound of his voice and the distant thumping of our hearts - I remember every second... every chord, every cadence and every shivering vibrato... This lesson in particular, however, seemed to stand out in my mind above all others...

"_My heart foreseeing your condemnation, into this tomb I made my way by stealth, and here, far from every human gaze, in your arms I wished to die..." _

I heard my own voice now, resounding effortlessly inside the caverns of my mind..

"_It's such a wonderful part, such a beautiful story!" _I had said innocently.

_"Yes, " _he had replied with great sorrow, _"it's a very beautiful story."_

How cruelly ironic it is that the first, fateful production that I am to be a part of, after my return, is none other than this particular opera... the passionate depiction of a love that overcame all boundaries... and ended in the cold, catacombs of death...

I was to play the Ethiopian slave, Aida... the character which I had so often portrayed along side Erik's piano... the two of us belting out those desirous melodies, our voices playing upon each other like wind over water... He taught me so much in that lesson... I believe that it was then that I first realized his love for me...

Tonight, as I stand in the wings, dressed in flowing white, as he had always imagined the character to be wearing for this scene, I can think only of the duet which lies ahead of me... That final, tumultuous marriage of voice and sound which concludes the final act...

Tonight, although he is not with me, I sing for him alone... I draw a tremulous breath and step on stage...

The light hits me with such force that I struggle through the glare to maintain my character... Aida has come to die with Ramades, and slowly, I make my way downstage through the elaborate set pieces, meant to represent the burial grounds. Once again, I hear echoes of that lesson I experienced so long ago, in another, very different mausoleum of music...

"_My heart foreseeing your condemnation, into this tomb I made my way by stealth, and here, far from every human gaze, in your arms I wished to die..." _

The notes flow smoothly from my voice as I approach the man opposite me, playing the role of Ramades...

"_The fatal stone now closes over me."_

I remember Erik's face so clearly as he had once addressed the answering melody to me...

"_To die, so pure and lovely..."_

Ramades turns, slowly and purposefully towards me and I feel a gasp escape my quivering throat...

"Erik...?" I whisper in disbelief.

His face, as clear as day appears before me... Hauntingly real... I could never forget that face. Every contour, every detail, completely and eternally etched into my memory. He stands before me, his white mask glinting in the stage lights and the crook of his mouth upturned knowingly... Those grey-blue eyes swim before me like two of the brightest stars in the night sky... A single tear slides unnoticed down my cheek.

Somewhere in the distant confines of reality, an audience member coughs loudly. For an instant, my attention is distracted from that tantalizing image which floats before me... A sea of faces stretches out into darkness, beyond the impenetrable blanket of light that seems to separate the magical world of the stage from the true world of the crowd behind it. The light shifts nervously around me, and the air grows thick and heavy with tension.

"To die, so pure and lovely" repeats the voice next to me.

I turn back in confusion to meet, not the alluring blue-grey eyes of Erik's, but the deep hazel of another man... Jonathon, my fellow actor looks apprehensively at me through the silent din that surrounds the stage.

"Christine..." He urges frantically under his breath. "Christine go! It's your line."

I cannot move... I am paralysed on the spot, unable to break free of the grief shackles that seem to chain me to the floor where I stand. Tears seep helplessly from under my clenching eyes and I feel my blood begin to pound sporadically through my adrenaline filled body. Slowly... very slowly... I turn once more towards the audience, as if searching for help amid the faces that leer menacingly at my from the seats... My gaze wanders frantically over the many surfaces before me. Pleadingly, helplessly searching for something to bring me back to presence.

Time seems to expand as my wandering gaze falls unnoticed upon an empty box just off stage left... Box Five...

"_Sing for me, Angel..."_

Even now, in the most desperate of times, I hear his voice echo inside my head... Come on Christine, you must do something...

In that horrible instant of panic, where I am on the verge of either passing out, or running off stage in desperation, a sudden flicker of movement catches my eye... Something small and delicate has fallen onto the stage only a foot or so before my feet. Entranced, I bend robotically to pick up the eartheal object...

There is no gasp of realization as I intertwine the delicate rose between my fingers... Only peace and strength seem to emanate from the velvety scarlet of the bloom that I hold gingerly before me.

With eyes veiled by tears, I raise my face upwards in ecstasy... I cannot see him from where I stand, but I feel his presence surround me like a wave, comforting and warm. I feel him in the air, in the light, in the softness of the black ribbon that encircles the stem clasped protectively in my arms... He surrounds me, and suddenly, I know no fear... I hear nothing but his voice inside my head, and the sounds of heaven that arise tumultuously from my own mortal being.

I feel my shoulders raise, and my lungs swell, as the final note bursts effortlessly from my voice...


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Erik

I will remember this moment forever. To see her for the first time in ages, quivering nervously below my gaze in that very place where she belongs the most. I stand now, high above center stage, looking down on her like the protective, sheltering angel she used to imagine me to be.

"My heart foreseeing your condemnation…"

Hesitantly at first, but soon growing stronger and more powerful, she begins to sing. Memories flood back to me as I relive that night when we first sang out this very duet. Her voice had taken control of me then too… I had felt like a beast. While under the influence of that alluringly melodic instrument I had no grasp of the reality that had seemed so far away from where we were. It was at that moment that I truly had felt that I had succeeded in training the most talented diva in the world…

Before my tutelage, Christine had near perfect technique, but it was one of my most maddening struggles to try to break down those barriers of infuriating discipline and give her a touchstone from which to anchor her song. Until that day, she sung without emotion, without passion, without all the heat and rapture that I knew I must awaken within her soul. I taught her those things… Comically hypocritical of me it was, I now realize, for me to presume to teach this beautiful young creature about love and passion, when I myself had scarcely a second of experience in the field. But that moment… that moment when she had opened her throat and released the first trembling modulation of sound, I knew that it was coming not from her mind, but from some place far deeper and more desirous…

"In your arms I wished to die…"

I had wished to die that day. The pain… the physical pain that I had felt after hearing that beautiful voice, and knowing full well that I could never behold the soul from which it came nearly drove me mad… Tonight however, I felt no stab of jealousy or prick of anger… Tonight she had come to me… she had addressed me… called out my name and cried… cried for me… Tonight, I feel a different emotion - One which is so unfamiliar to me that it is barely discernable as anything real or true… Tonight… I feel… joy…

A sporadic silence shakes me from my reverie and draws my attention back down to the scene below… Christine is standing stalk still and rigid… I cannot see her face from here, but the tension in the air between us draws the hair on my neck rigid… Something is wrong… that horrible moment is upon her that every performer fears above all else. She is frozen. Frozen solid in an invisible cement casting that seems to bind her every bone and fiber…

"I'm here Christine…" I long to call out to her… but just as it did behind the mirror, my voice tenses infuriatingly and prevents me from doing that which I desire to…

"To die, so pure and lovely" repeats the male voice, opposite Christine.

The only response that she seems to be able to muster is to stare blindly around the menacing house before her… I must do something… If ever she needed her Angel of Music, it is now…

Decidedly, I inhale deeply and release the phrase that I have reserved for no other…

"Sing for me, Angel…" My skills as a ventriloquist prove handy as my voice floats translucently in her ear…

There is no reaction in her body… Unconsciously, I feel my own arm raise, as if by chance, towards my line of vision… I am almost surprised to see the rose between my fingers… It was perfect. A perfectly symmetrical bud, chosen with such care and tenderness… It slips from my fingers and floats featherly towards the stage…

Please Christine… sing for me…

I watch with bated breath as she bends gracefully to retrieve the bloom… I see, only for a second, her tear-streaked face turn upwards as if to greet her beloved angel…

"Hello Christine" I mutter under my quickening breath…

The next thing I hear nearly forces me to the ground in glorious rapture… Never, on all this mortal earth, will there ever be a more perfect sound witnessed by a living soul…


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Christine

My heart pounds robotically in my chest as I dart furiously in and out of the masses of people that crowd the backstage crevices of the opera house. I feel myself pushing aggressively through the din without a thought as to whose foot it was I just tred on. I need to be alone. I need to be somewhere that I can think! Away from the congestion of the theatre… My dressing room is out of the question. I will not return to that haunt tonight… I cannot face the omnipotent shadows of that mirror tonight… not after what happened on stage.

Shoving past a troupe of ballet students, I finally emerge at a small, disused door on the far north side of the opera house. It opens onto a small courtyard, surrounded by smooth stonework and intricately carved statues that seem to watch over the space like benevolent guardians. I used to come here often as a child. It is where I felt closest to my father. When I had finished my prayers in the chapel, I would often feel compelled to revisit them here, in this bewitchingly simple little garden.

Shivering slightly in the cool, evening air, I approach the small, stone bench that sits in the centre of the courtyard, overlooking the delicate fountain, tucked in among the remains of a withered old rose bush. I brush several dead leaves from the smooth surface of the bench and huddle myself into the shadowy confines of my cloak.

This place was once beautiful. I remember so many evenings that I would sit on this very bench, admiring the delicate intricacies of the stonework. A master must have built this courtyard. Every detail was so carefully etched… And it was so different from the rest of the building. Gilded nudes and camp tile work adorned the richly decorated public halls of the rest of the Opera Populaire, but this place… this place had an awakeningly simplistic nature that always brought a gasp to my mouth, despite the pitiful look of the neglected garden.

My gaze falls unconsciously on the single rose that I still clutch in my hand… So many emotions are running through my mind right now. I can barely focus my attention on anything at once without giving myself a headache.

I cannot allow myself to believe that it is true… that it was from Erik that this rose came from… But who else? Who else would present such a rare bloom, and at that particular moment when I felt I needed him most? Here in the cool quite of this courtyard, the very idea seems absurd… but back on stage, in the hot din of silence that followed that tumultuous applause… I felt him… I actually felt his presence! His eyes watching me, and I heard his voice whisper softly in my ear… Perhaps I am mad. Perhaps it is only madness that I heard, echoing above the stage floor. Perhaps this is the end of Christine Daae's once sane mind!

"But if you truly believe you are crazy… why did you not return to your dressing room?" my mind seems to ask. "Why did you flee if you believe you have nothing to face behind that mirror?"

I couldn't risk the truth… If he were there… he were there it would be… It would be staggering. I don't know that I would be able to withhold such joy and still keep my piece of mind…

What if he were back? What if when I return to my dressing room, Erik were there on bended knee, pleading once more for the affections that I denied him so long ago? Four hours ago, I had gravelled at the foot of that mirror… pleading… crying out for him to be there… and now, if he actually heard that cry, am I ready to face him again? Am I ready to accept that love that I so desperately yearn for? Am I ready to accept the trials that would certainly lay ahead for us, if we were to have any hope at a normal life?

Yes… I know that I am ready… perhaps I always have been, but too consumed by my childish need for normalcy that I was unaware of it.

A soft breeze blows suddenly through the stonework of the courtyard. It lifts my cloak slightly and carries several small, velvety red petals into my lap…

"Where did you come from?" I murmur softly to myself.

The rose that I hold in my hand certainly hasn't begun to wilt yet, and I'm positive that there is not a living bud on that poor, neglected bush beside me… So from where have these wandering petals come from? Curiously, I get to my feet and turn falteringly to a darkened corner behind me… I hear a shuffling from behind the skeletal remains of a shrubbery and as I draw nearer, I feel my breath catch apprehensively in my chest… Closer and closer I lean towards that bush until I am almost level with it… Suddenly a small body flies, startled, from the bush and out into the night air. I scream shortly and clutch my chest in surprise…

"Only a nightingale" I assure myself… "Only a nightingale…"

My gaze returns to the greenery before me. I peer past the prickled hedge and for the second time, feel a sharp intake of breath as my eyes comprehend the sight which lies before me…

There, tucked away in a small alcove in the masonry, amid the rest of the ruined plants in the garden, is the most healthy, perfect rose bush, I have ever beheld. In absolute awe, I move closer to the plant, gazing raptly at the perfectly symmetrical buds that cover the mass of greenery… This is no wild rose bush. Someone has cared for this plant. Watered it, trimmed it, and nurtured it with unfailing expertise. The buds are sturdy, and only one or two seem to show any evidence of wilt or damage from the crosswind that blows through the courtyard.

"I needed a place for them in the sun…"

The voice cracks through the silence like a whip and sends my pulse into rapid, sporadic beats… I whirl around without thinking, and find myself staring, for the second time tonight, into a pair of luminous, blue-grey eyes, enshadowed behind a pearl-white mask…


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Erik

I can't say that I'm not surprised how brief her reaction was. For a moment, she simply stares at me - her eyes glazed and without emotion. There is an eternal pause that seems to hang between us…

Silence…

Then through the foggy remnants of my memory I hear my own ironic melody float through my mind…

This is the point of no return… This pivotal moment, will change everything…

The shadow of a smile forms on her tearful face and she suddenly lets out a sound, undistinguishable as any specific word. It is addressed in a way that makes me wonder if she has momentarily forgotten how to speak.

Meanwhile, I feel my own blood begin to pump furiously through my veins as I struggle to restrain my own emotions. I have seen Christine every night for the past month, and visited her every minute within my own thoughts. I know every contour of her face and every shadow of her structure. It is only now, however, that I realize what has been missing from her expression lately… It is happiness… This is the first glimpse of joy or contentment that I've seen on her face since her return to the opera house… The sight nearly brings tears to my eyes.

"Erik" she finally manages to say.

Before I can respond, I feel her rush violently into my arms… I hold her quivering form for a long moment as she sobs relentlessly into my chest. My grief does not drain slowly away from my mind – ebbing silently into the night like the tears that now stream down both of our faces. Instead, it just disappears… I can no longer feel sorrow or hatred towards mankind. In this moment, I forget every injustice that I have experienced in my life, and feel only her love – tender and true.

There are no words spoken between us. It does not seem right to speak at this time. I haven't the slightest idea what I would say to her right now, even if I could. My voice seems to be frozen once more, but this time not due to indignance or discomposure. This time, it is a lump of exaltation that clogs both my throat and my mind. I drown in that sweet euphoria and know only the short rhythmic tremors of her alleviation.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Christine

I sit nervously on the couch amid the elegant furnishings of this strangely alluring apartment that I have not visited in so long. I don't know why my hands won't stop shaking. I find myself trembling with more adrenaline than I have ever known, even before a gala performance. I try to find something to focus on that will calm my nerves. My eyes slowly wander over the subterranean room around me.

The sights that I behold are difficult to accept… This place, which had once been a shrine to the music that Erik so passionately worshipped, now bears signs of his incredible depression over the past year. The mirrors that were once covered richly with thick, brocaded drapery are now empty except for a few jagged shards which remain sporadically around the frames. There are ripped pieces of parchment, only partially attached to the scarred surface of the cave. The beautiful sketches and paintings that once hung there have been savagely torn down and disposed of. Probably most devastatingly of all, I find bits of musical scores fluttering despairingly around the bank of the lake. I kneel down beside one such piece and with horror I read the words "Don Juan…" sprawled neatly across the crumpled portion of paper… The distant sound of clinking china brings me back to the present. I turn around, still shaking slightly, to see Erik enter the room, balancing a dainty tea cup, gracefully in his hand.

"This should calm you down, I think."

I return to the sofa where he joins me, with the steaming cup.

"Thank you." I reply, grasping the saucer paralytically and exploring the aroma that streams out from it. "What is it?"

"A type of Persian tea, infused with a mild calming draught… I assure you, it's not unpleasing to the taste… you look as though you could use it."

I laugh nervously and taste the concoction. To my surprise, Erik is right. It tastes of sweet honey and thyme and the liquid seems to seep through my blood and warm me to the core. I feel the tension drain from my shoulders and relax deeper into the folds of the sofa. A deep silence falls between us, through which neither of us meet the other's eyes.

Nothing has been said of any importance since our reunion… perhaps there has simply been nothing to say, or perhaps these feelings are too obvious to be properly expressed through mortal words. I remember very little of what has happened since I saw those eyes appear before me… I remember falling helplessly into his embrace and being lead shakily back through parts of the opera house that I never knew existed… Back down to the lake… back down to the labyrinth…

"Why did you destroy your work, Erik?" I blurt out suddenly.

I feel him shift uneasily on the sofa beside me as he runs his fingers unconsciously through his thick, black hair.

"You are tired, Christine… Just rest for now, we'll talk in the morning…"

His voice is like a lullaby, willing me to sleep… I fight through it determinedly and turn wearily to face him.

"Erik, please… I want to know…" my voice drifts lazily from my mouth as I struggle against the warm mixture that flows comfortably through my body. I feel hesitation in his voice for a moment, before he quietly responds to my pleas.

"You are my music, Christine… without you, I was deaf, and without sound, a musician cannot live" he whispers softly in my ear.

I struggle to comprehend his reply as my eyes close drowsily and my empty tea cup tips harmlessly into my lap. I am gradually lifted by strong, protecting arms and carried gently through a door and into the only room that remains exactly as it was a year ago. I am laid loosely on my bed and feel the gentle release from the constraints of my corset and then the soft, smoothness of satin sheets being pulled around me.

"Erik…" is the last thing I remember saying.

I feel the fleeting caress of his lips on my forehead, and then the dizzy silence that surrounds my empty room. For the first time in my life, I am by myself… but not alone.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Erik

The door shuts mechanically behind me, and I lean with exhaustion against its surface. The cool, smoothness of the wood presses into my back and I close my eyes against the warm glow of the candles in the hall. Through the wall I hear her shuffle around the bed in her sleep. I hope that she is comfortable… but the strength of the sleeping draught should have made sure of that.

I feel so peaceful in this moment, and yet so lost at the same time. I have no idea where to go from this point. That moment which I have longed for has finally come – she has returned, but what happens next? The emotional whirlwind that has just passed over us both caught me by surprise. I had not expected to feel that shaking body thrust so frantically into my arms, and I had not expected the torrential tears that leaked from my own eyes as I, in turn, trembled under her touch. I hate to see her cry, whether it be from grief, or from joy. I hope that my herbal concoction will save her from such emotions through the night.

Slowly, I blink several times as if to bring me back to the present, and make my way silently through my kingdom. I take in the ripped parchment, scattered across the ornate, Persian carpets, the dents and scrapes in the aging pipe organ that spans the wall closest to my room, and the bare surfaces that once held sketches of her.

What life is this? I have lived my entire life in solitude, but this passed year, I realize has been startlingly worse than any other… Previously, at least I've had my music to exercise my mind… but that all ended the night that she flew from this dismal place…

I turned my back on anything that reminded me of her. I could not hear music, of any form. Even my own opera that had been the beginning of the end of our world together now lay shredded throughout my home. The drawings and sketches that I had so carefully created in her likeness were hidden… No matter how great my grief, I could not bring myself to destroy the only pictures that I had of her.

I feared that one night, in a horribly intoxicated stupor, I would finally sever this connection and truly destroy these sketches. So in one of my more lucid moments, I buried them. Every one was now locked and protected in a chest, buried deep in the caverns of the underground labyrinth. There, at least, I knew that she was safe from my madness in some sense.

The organ in to corner seems to be calling to me now… beckoning me as it has not done in over a year. I approached it warily, unsure of the object, as if it were a dangerous weapon that I was not qualified to wield after such a long time… Slowly, I run my fingers over the glassy keys before me. I touch them, but make no noise.

Electricity seems to surround me, as I the caress deepens and a single cutting note resounds around the room.

_She came back to me…_

I sit on the bench and align my fingers with the pearl, white keys…

_She came back…_

A second note echoes softly from the pipes above me…

_She came…_

A chord thunders suddenly from below my finger tips and melds effortlessly into a tumultuous melody of exaltation…

_She came back to me when I was certain I would never feel love towards a human being again… She came back of her own free will… not only that… she longed to return to me… _

The music that I release into the air is beautiful, and yet scarcely heard by my ears… All I can hear is my own disbelieving thoughts…

_She… she came… to me…_

Beads of sweat begin to snake their way down my forehead. My jaw and shoulders tense as my hands fly across the organ like wild fire. I am out of breath and shaking with emotions that have been so long suppressed.

_I am a man… I am a living man and I am wanted by a living woman… Never in my life did I dare imagine that such a soul would exist… a soul that would willingly intertwine itself with mine in a relationship, in any sense of the word._

My heart races as the crescendo rises and my dream world is filled with the empowerment of long silenced music… music…

_She is my music… she is my song… She is… She is… She…_

Suddenly there is silence. A thought had just struck my mind with agonizing force…

What on earth was I doing? I turned once more in my seat to look around the prison that surrounded me… for a prison it was, and soon would become Christine's as well if I did not intervene. I am living my life in a cave! A cave! I am suddenly filled with self-revulsion.

_She is my music… she is my song… she is… she is... she…_

She is a creature of life and light, and deserves to bask in all the glory that her talents can award her… I cannot allow her to stay down in this place with me… She deserves so much more than that – she always has.

I have been selfish. So incredibly selfish to think that I have the right to have and to hold her till death do us part, when the entirety of Paris longs for her voice… her voice… her voice will always be mine…

I glance warily at the door to her room and with sudden decisiveness leave the piano bench and fetch my cloak which still hangs by the sofa where I abandoned it when I brought Christine back here. She will be fine until morning. While under the spell of that Persian remedy, I highly doubt that she will wake before noon tomorrow. I plan to be back long before then…

I just need to see it… I must see it again… for the first time since my childhood… I must know…

The small gondola moves fluidly through the black waters of the lake and I feel the strange whirlwind of emotions flow through my veins similarly… I could not think at the moment… I would save that process for later. Faster and faster the far bank of the lake approaches and in my impatience, I jump out of the boat a foot short of the shore. There is no time to curse the discomfort of a sopping wet shoe right now though. Instead, I trudge on, more rapidly on foot, up the surfaces of the lakeside, and finally to a small pool of moonlight directly beside the outer wall of the opera house. A single window, barred, rusted, and forgotten is situated only a foot or two above the ground.

I reach into my cloak pocket and withdraw a small golden key. I feel the smoothness of the metal through the leather of my gloves, and after a brief moment of hesitation, shove the small object into the web of metal that spans the opening. The door swings open easily, despite its intense rustiness. I take a deep breath, and step out onto the quiet streets of Paris. Pulling my collar around my face, I venture across the cobblestone roads, glancing warily at the shuttered windows that surround me. This journey to any other man would be laughably simple, but to me, it is a nightmare. I feel very little fear in my life, and yet this simple action of walking on a deserted Parisian street makes me stiffen and tense.

It is almost a full half an hour before I finally stop. If I am going to venture into the world, I am going to do it right. I want to make sure that when the sun hits me, I will have no chance to run like a coward quickly into the shadows of my lair.

I reach the very edge of the Seine and with terrified resignation lay a hand on the metal railing in front of me. This piece of iron has felt the caress of hundreds of people every day. It hides, unnoticed and inconsequential in the broad daylight of the world and yet it guides and supports all those who seek its assistance. Oh what it would be to have such an opportunity - to be able to live life, and yet hide in its very midst.

I run a finger along the cold, metal railing and look silently towards the horizon… For the first time since my boyhood, I am going to be in the world where Christine belongs… For the first time in ages, I am going to watch the sunrise.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Christine

I have no way of knowing exactly how long I have been sleeping, but the grogginess of an extended slumber still lies thickly on my senses. I opened my eyes, hoping to see him sitting next to me. Instead, a small note in an expensive, cream coloured envelope lies on my pillow. Curiously, I raise myself up onto my arm to examine the note.

I smile inwardly at the blood red image that seals the parchment. The last note that I had seen from Erik, bore a hideous skull melted onto the paper. Now, however, the seal is in the shape of a delicately carved rosebud.

I carefully remove the contents of the package and read the message. It is written, as always, in Erik's elegant, scarlet script.

"_Do not be alarmed if I am not here when you wake up. I will return shortly."_

Laying the note aside, I lazily remove the luxurious sheets and stand stiffly beside the bed. A small door to my right remains open and lit by a single candle. I approach the entrance to the bathroom, eager to refresh myself after such a lengthy rest.

The adjoining chamber is elegantly furnished with any toiletries or apparel that I might need. Beside a small vanity is a life sized manikin dressed in a beautiful gown of green silk. I smile to myself as I finger the delicate cloth. There is a second note pinned to the neckline of the dress.

"_I assume that this will be to your liking" _is all that it says.

After bathing and dressing, I slowly feel the tiresome webbery of sleep begin to drift from my mind and I emerge expectantly from my bedroom into the main gallery of Erik's house.

The room is empty, and a comfortable stillness swirls around me as I approach the door to his bedroom. The door is ajar and before I even enter I know that he has not yet returned from his errands. I approach his enormous canopied bed and palm the smooth satin covered duvet. There are no creases in the fabric. This bed has obviously not been slept in recently.

A noise suddenly resounds from the doorway. I quickly return to the main room just in time to see Erik step gracefully from the ornate and gilded gondola.

"I was beginning to worry." I say with a grin.

He does not return the smile, nor does he meet my eyes. Silently he sheds his cloak and approaches me slowly, as if any sudden movement would shatter our existence.

"Erik?"

After a long moment, he finally raises his eyes to meet mine.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I went for a walk today, Christine."

Confusion settles over my mind as I watch him drift towards the edge of the lake. He kneels slowly, the tips of his fingers brushing the surface of the water. I'm suddenly faced with indecision as to what to do next. Do I approach him? Sit by his side, take his hand and beg to know the tremors of his heart? No… even after a year of separation, I still sense that such sentimentalities would be lost on him.

Instead, I stay where I am – stone still and staring at the man before me, with every longing in my heart to see into the deepest reaches of his soul.

"What is it, Erik?" I repeat.

He turns his face towards me.

"You cannot stay here" he says stonily.

His words attack my senses and yet in this moment, I cannot fully comprehend their meanings.

"You must leave" he says without emotion. "You must leave now."

He stands up briskly and brushes past me with cold indifference. He disappears for a moment into his room to leave me, stunned and shaking outside his door. He returns a second later with a heavy black cloak. He thrusts it violently onto my shoulders and takes hold of my hand as if to drag me away from this place.

Who was this man? This was not Erik! Something was wrong… something must be wrong for him to act so irrationally.

"Erik, stop!" I shout at him.

He pauses momentarily, his breath heavy as he lowers his gaze. My hand is still imprisoned in his, but now, his touch has softened and he gently releases me. I cannot see his face as he turns in anguish and stumbles away.

I am suddenly brought back to that night that I saw him last. I remember the kiss… I remember how I felt his stillness overshadow his desire to reach out to me… He did not though… He did not touch me at all. His arms hovered around my frame, yet he could not bring himself to touch my skin. It was as if he thought that his caress would cause me unbearable pain… I remember the look on his face, as though his entire world were beginning and ending, all in the same second… and I remember his desperate cries as he tore himself away from my life. His blind staggerment and slow release now reminds me so strongly of that moment when he ordered me to go last year. Through this connection, I begin to understand…

He sacrificed his love for my freedom and happiness once before. He tore out his own heart for the sole purpose of allowing me a life with Raoul… and now… now he was doing the same. Banishing me from his kingdom for my own happiness.

"Erik…"

I approach him silently and lay a hand on his shoulder. I immediately feel his muscles tense and he pulls away from the contact as though it pains him.

"Why do you deprive yourself of all happiness?" I whisper softly.

He stiffens slightly and I see his arms raise monotonously to his face. I cannot see from here, but I know what he is doing. The white porcelain mask appears in his hand… He does not turn… Somehow I know that he will not turn unless I will it of him… This is a test… I know that he is testing himself as much as me. He expects me to cry out in horror at the thought of facing his complexion… he expects me to shout in anger at him for assaulting my senses with his true face… he expects me… he expects me to leave…

Cautiously and decisively, I approach him from behind, ever wary of his own quickening breath. I lay a hand on his arm, and gently pull him around to face me.

His face is tear soaked and his eyes clenched shut, as though determined not to address my gaze. I raise a hand to his right side and tremulously stroke the contours of his skin.

"You deserve better…" he whispers through his tears. "You deserve more than any normal man can give you, Christine… and I… I am no man, least of all normal…"

My own eyes brim with tears and I gently trace my fingers down his neck and rest them silently over his heart. I feel his heated blood pump deafly beneath my touch. The beating heart of a man lies here…

"You… are all that I will ever need, Erik."

Smoothly, I reach for a delicate chain that hangs loosely around my neck… It is time… now, more than ever…

I pull the small rope of silver from the neckline of my dress to reveal a perfect, simplistic, gold wedding band, dangling from the end. I see his eyes widen as I slowly release the ring from its chain and align it with my finger.

"Say you'll share with me…"

My words seem to cut through his barriers of solitude and I suddenly see every emotion within him at once… His face twists into a mixture of rapture and pain, passion and fear, amazement and disbelief, all at the same time…

"No…" he sobs, taking my head in his hands. "No… I cannot keep you down here Christine… What have I done to you already? I've imprisoned you from the world in which you belong."

"Then come with me!" I plead. "Come with me to that world! Share your gifts with humanity! Allow yourself the joys of living as the man that you are! We'll leave Paris! We'll go where no one has ever heard of us! Come into the sunrise and we can live our lives together!"

He is silent for a long moment. His breath coming in unsteady sobs as he leans his head against mine.

"Let me lead you from your solitude…"

I cup his face in my palms and bring his eyes level with mine.

"Erik… that's all I ask of you…"

We stare into each other for what seems like an eternity… Then, slowly, he lifts his face to mine… This time, it is different… Gone is the hesitation in his embrace. I feel his arms surround me, and his hand envelope the back of my neck… Erik… I have your answer… and you have my love.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Erik

"Erik"

The sound of her voice wakes me from the reverie of music that has contained me all afternoon. I've sat at this piano for hours, scribbling furiously on the open score, barely aware of her presence on the small couch behind me. I hate to consume myself in my work when she is with me, although she says she does not mind. I've tried working late at night when she has returned home to her flat, but without her here, no inspiration seems to come. I struggle to pull myself away from my task and patiently turn to face her. Shock overwhelms me when I begin to comprehend the image before my eyes.

Christine is no longer lying stretched on the sofa as she had been when I began to work. She now stands placidly beside the lake, and to my horror is helping an unknown man out of my boat.

My first, irrational thought, is of that boy… Then, slowly comprehension brings me to the realization that Raoul had neither greying, charcoal hair, nor dark, tanned skin.

"Daroga?" I whisper in disbelief.

The man straightens and I see a nostalgic grin flash across his face.

"Why hello, Erik" he replies, clearly amused at my bewilderment.

So many years it has been since I last saw this old friend. I've often thought of him, and his kindnesses towards me – kindnesses that few others have ever granted me. I've lately wondered what must have become of this loyal companion over the years. When I last saw him, death is the fate that I would have suspected of him. But now, here he stands as real as anything ever can be in my world.

"Well aren't you going to invite me in you scoundrel? This lovely lady did all the work in fetching me across the lake and even now you barely raise your head as welcome!"

I turn with mock accusation to Christine who smiles gleefully.

"Where are my manners, dear Daroga?" I say, raising myself up and beckoning him further into the room.

It is surprisingly easy, allowing this man into my home. Since I've lived here, I can count on one hand the number of people who have accompanied me down to this sanctuary, and every time, the dull pang of enraged territorialism hammers at my mind. But now… now I feel only welcome for this man.

He approaches me, hand outstretched and I briefly embrace this old friend. My face feels taught and realize with wonder that my expression has unwillingly contorted itself into a jovial smile.

"How on earth did you find me, my old friend?"

"Oh that lovely young lady was kind enough to escort me" he says with a shrug.

Funny, in my concentration I had not even noticed her leave to go and get him.

We venture to the long dining table and I hastily brush off several piles of musical scores and scribbles. Christine enters a moment later with a steaming pot of tea. She fills to cups.

"Thank you, my dear" says the Daroga pleasantly.

I look towards her, expectantly.

"Christine, are you not joining us?"

"No" she says, unconsciously smoothing the folds of her skirt. "no, I'm going to head back home for the night."

She picks up her hand bag and passes behind my chair. For a brief moment, I feel her hand rest gently on my shoulder, and then she is gone. Most nights, I escort her home myself, but I know that tonight she will be fine on her own. A week or so ago, I opened an alternate passage to the street level for her to use when she comes and goes.

I turn back to my guest who smiles knowingly from across the table.

"I do believe there is something quite different about you, Erik"

"Many things, I'm sure. It has been a long time."

"No" he says with a smile still clothing his expression. "no there is one thing in particular that seems to stand out…"

"Well?" I ask with a sight.

"You are happy."

It was not a question and there was no doubt as to its truth.

"Yes…"

There is a long silence between us as we both stare respectfully into our cups. After a moment, I pull myself from my thoughts and break the shield of quiet.

"What has brought you here, Daroga?"

He smiles that calming smile as he responds.

"I would have thought that it would be obvious, Erik… Why to pay my respects to you and your beautiful young fiancé of course! The wedding is tomorrow, is it not?"

It takes me a moment to comprehend his knowledge of our engagement.

"How did you…?" I begin.

He shakes his head with a laugh and waves a hand to intercept my disbelieving response.

"Oh, Erik, I have been living in Paris for quite some time now. Surely I recognized you rather easily one night as you were escorting Christine back home. I then approached her the next night as she walked alone back to her flat. She is such a lovely creature, Erik."

He gives a little laugh as he leans back in his chair.

"You can imagine, I was quite surprised to see the two of you together."

His last comment cuts me like a knife and I feel a small flame erupt in my scull. I stand suddenly and turn away from him.

"You find it surprising that I may have found love from a woman… I normal woman?"

"Erik…" he tries to intercept.

"Of course you do." I feel my voice begin to lighten with the indifference that I have worked so desperately to develop over the past few months. "Of course you would find that surprising…"

Since our engagement, I've stayed true to my word and gradually ventured, with Christine, into the outside world. It took me a while to even address the fact that people would see me, and even longer to be able to withstand their stares that I would inevitably attract.

I could not blame the Daroga for his comment… I know that it is the thought of almost everyone who sees Christine and I together. What is that beautiful young thing doing with a strange shadow like that?

Christine was wonderful through it all though. I daresay it was her confidence that gave me the strength to accept their stars and to continue to trust her that my fears of inadequacy were folly.

"Erik" says the voice behind me. "Erik, you've completely misunderstood me. I'm sorry, I hadn't thought how that would sound."

I do not yet turn and face his apologetic exterior.

"Erik, what I meant was simply that I was surprise to see you here in Paris at all… not that you wore on your arm a beautiful young woman. That, in fact, did not surprise me in the least…"

I now face him, eye to eye.

"You mock me, Daroga."

"No, Erik… obviously you do not have any realization of your own power."

He laughs cruelly as we both return to our seats.

"Erik, do you not remember the royal Khanum back in Persia? I can tell you that she was quite upset at your coy avoidance of her advances!"

"The Khanum was sick, Daroga."

"The Khanum was sick, I agree, but she was still a woman my friend… Is it possibly that you were truly oblivious to all of those concubines that you so savagely rejected from your presence? Were you truly blind to your own affect over them?"

"I have affected only fear and revulsion upon any woman, sir."

That laugh once again haunts the room and I pain to see his glittering smile over his tea cup.

"Erik, you surely must be daft. I sometimes think that the only distortion you possess is that picture of yourself that you see in your own mind."

Was it possible that what this old friend was saying was true? Thinking back through my life I seem to remember a rather strange assortment of encounters with women whose advances were so strong that I could take them only to be out of petty torment towards me. How would anyone truly find such a beast desirable? How even Christine can stand to look at me day after day is an absolute miracle in my eyes, and yet it does not seem to bother her in the least.

I know that I am physically well built. I eat little and yet was gracefully blessed with some respectable muscle tone. At an age well passed the dashing agility of a young man, I still maintain sleek black hair and a fairly agile appearance… but this face… this horrible distortion that has been the phantom of my nightmares since I was five! How could one be attracted to something, topped with such a grotesque feature?

"Erik…" says the Daroga softly. "I cannot answer for you the questions on your mind, but I can tell you that whatever it is that you possess that has drawn Christine to you, even the most perfectly-faced men in the world would kill for it."

A wry smile develops on my own face.

On a personal note, I had fun with this chapter by basically just letting the characters go crazy and talk amongst themselves. Hence the removal of Christine fairly early on so that they could have some "boy talk". I also loved to toy with the idea of Erik's true deformity being only what he imagines of himself. That is one thing that I found brilliant about the movie was that they purposely (or perhaps unpurposely) made Erik desirable even without his mask on. He puts himself through such pain because he is a million times more repulsed by himself than anyone else may be. He's like an anorexic. He has a distorted image of himself and cannot see the way the rest of us do.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Erik

The light splatter of rain hits me unceasingly as the Daroga and I emerged from the opera house and approached the waiting carriage across the street. Everything is in order. We are to meet Christine at the church for a small ceremony and then depart right away for the western harbour where a boat is to be waiting for us. England, we had decided, was the obvious destination for us to continue our lives, although the Daroga had briefly suggested his native Persia as a comfortable alternative.

We wanted to be far enough away from Paris to escape the darkly shadowed past that would inevitably haunt us here, but still remain within the comfortable confines of western society. Christine has a friend near London who has been very helpful with finding us a place to live. Although the Phantom has long since gone into retirement, I still possess quite a fortune from the generous salary I had been earning from Andre and Firman. Neither of us had seen the home that was reserved for us, but apparently the former management of the Opera Populaire had bought us a rather comfortable residence just outside the hubbub of London life.

The carriage jostles into action and we start away from the opera house. The Daroga sits silently beside me, hands folded and a look of quiet contentment on his face. I, on the other hand, feel no such peace.

I have not entered a church since my boyhood. For the few years that I knew her, my mother raised me a devout catholic… but the cruelties of society, and in my eyes, God, soon turned me from any faith whatsoever. For Christine's sake, I honoured her wishes that we be married properly in a church that she often attends during the week. She knows the clergymen well and has spoken to the priest who will be performing the ceremony. She has been reassuring me time and time again that there will be no questions asked of me or prying eyes to avoid at any time during the ceremony. I trust her, of course, but to put trust in the world that I now enter is an entirely different thing.

As the carriage turns down a darkened street, bustling with the Parisian public, I self-consciously pull the collar of my cloak higher around my face and lean further into the shadows of the cab.

"I am proud of you, Erik" the Daroga says suddenly.

I look up in surprise to see that wise smile glittering back at me. Somehow, although we are similar in age, I feel an almost fatherly affection coming from the man beside me.

"What on earth for?" I ask.

His pleasant laugh comes softly from the corner of the carriage.

"Erik, you have overcome so much in your life. So much has come of you with so little help from the rest of humanity. Like a phoenix from the ashes, you seem to have been completely born again. It is truly amazing to see how much you have changed."

As we approach the cathedral, the Daroga reaches into his cloak and withdraws a small glittering object. It remains in his hand for a long moment as if he is dreadfully afraid of parting with the object.

"A wedding gift" he says as he places the trinket in my palm.

The item is small and covered in gold leaf and precious gem stones. It is the miniature figure of a cat – the animal adored above all others in the eyes of Persian royalty. I vaguely recognize it as one of the possessions that I had left with this man so many years ago when I fled the country. I had given it to him for the purpose of providing some source of income for him and I am shocked to see that instead, he has kept it with him all these years.

I say nothing as the cabby pulls up to the doors of the church. I merely nod my head and smile softly, hoping that he understands my lack of speech as a sign of great appreciation. He too nods as he opens the carriage door and we both venture out into the rain drenched street.

Only an hour later, after sufficiently drying off and meeting briefly with the priest, I stand alone in a small chamber towards the back of the church.

So many emotions seem to whiz through my mind as I check my pocket watch for about the fifth time in the last few moments… How much time have I spent preparing for this moment without ever seriously considering that it would actually come? How many hours have I sat at that organ, composing a wedding mass that I was certain would never be played? How many nights have I sat, half awake and half asleep, dreaming fervently of her face frosted lightly by the delicacy of her wedding veil, certain that it was an image I would never know?

And now? Now I feel a dizzy tumult of half formed passions blending themselves excitedly throughout my mind, body and soul… I hear a knock on the door, yet do not fully comprehend the appearance of the Daroga and the withered, old priest by his side.

"It's time, Erik" says the old man.

Silently, I follow the two men out towards the altar of the church. The Daroga takes his seat as a witness in the front pew and bows his head respectfully. He is not a Christian, and nor am I. Yet in the sanctuary of this vast cathedral, and in the presence of the kindly old man who leads me silently towards the aisle, I don't think either of us could dispute the divinity of the moment in which we all seem suspended.

There is no booming of the organ as the doors at the back of the church open, and yet the hall is filled with music… silent music made by the beating hearts of our four souls.

Christine enters, the white satin of her gown swishing steadily against the red velvet carpet laid beneath her. I meet her eyes with complete focus as her image develops before me… closer and closer.

To my right, the Daroga rises from his seat and faces the aisle… She draws nearer… closer and closer.

The frail voice of the priest seeps softly into my senses as she draws level with me… her veiled image every bit as vivid as it has been in any dream I have ever had.

The melodic euphony of our wedding vows being announced in Latin resounds throughout the cathedral as our eyes lock in awed assurance and determination.

"I, Christine Daae…"

Her voice is as musical as any opera she has ever performed…

"…with deepest joy I receive you into my life that together we may be one. As is Christ to His body, the church, so I will be to you a loving and faithful wife…"

The rain pounds outside… and yet light erupts onto this altar as I respond in the quivering tones of emotional exhaustion.

"…I love you… I prayed that God would lead me to his choice. I praise Him that tonight His will is being fulfilled. Through the pressures of the present and uncertainties of the future I promise my faithfulness, to follow you through all of life's experiences…"

Silence surrounds us once more as a final statement is released by the small priest beside us.

"May God bless you both" he concludes in hushed tones.

I feel my shoulders tighten as I tenderly raise the thinness of her veil away from her tear shining face… For an instant I glimpse my own reflection in the vast catacombs of her deep brown eyes… Hesitation grips me as I feel the weight of the porcelain mask on my cheek. For a fleeting second my face unwillingly tenses away from hers… then suddenly, a delicate hand traces itself around my neck, and with surprising strength I feel myself being pulled gently into her embrace.

In that kiss… the rest of the world disappears…


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Christine

Rain drops stream down my cheeks and blend themselves with my own tears as we make way slowly towards the docks. The Daroga has accompanied us this far, but as we approach the small vessel waiting for our arrival, he stops and turns to face us both, pulling his wide-brimmed hat lower to ward off the rain. He takes my hand in his and kisses it gently with a respectful bow.

"My dear, it has been an honour to know you, and I hope that you experience only happiness in your new life."

He reaches subtly into the confines of his cloak and withdraws a very small golden pendant on a delicately formed chain. The charm is in the shape of a perfectly formed rose and inlaid with a single ruby. He opens my hand and lowers the keepsake into my palm.

"In my country, there is a legend that states that the very first red rose was born of a lonesome nightingale and a pristine, white bloom… Their passion was forbidden by Allah, and yet the strength of their love overcame this suppression."

There is no explanation of the validity of this token. He merely closes my hand around the cool metal of the chain and smiles warmly.

"I feel certain we'll meet again some day" he says kindly.

"Thank you…" is all that I can manage to say.

The Daroga now turns slowly towards Erik, who stands silently at my side. They say nothing to each other as they embrace briefly and clasp each others hands with deafening finality. Through their silence, however, an entire conversation seems to emerge between their eyes. A long, epic of friendship lasts in this last gaze, and I am suddenly aware of how deeply lodged in Erik's heart this man is.

The physical connection is broken, and the two men step awkwardly away from each other.

"Goodbye Daroga" Erik says quietly.

"Goodbye…"

And with a swish of his cloak and a chorus of fading footsteps, he is gone.

Erik and I stand quietly for a moment, deep in our own reflections. The rain continues to patter softly around us and a very light breeze flows through my skirts and sends a shiver over my skin.

"Shall we go, my dear?"

His voice is sudden and strained. I know that he is fighting the urge to show, outwardly the emotions that must be coursing through him at this moment. As I take his arm, he lowers the hood of his own cloak and drapes it tenderly across my shoulders. I look up to see the gleaming white of his mask.

Usually he does not expose himself so boldly in public. Perhaps this is simply a result of the emotional whirlwind of this afternoon, or perhaps it is truly a sign of a growing confidence in himself…

"Yes…" I respond softly.

Despite the chill of the twilight air, and the steady fall of the rain, we walk slowly towards the far dock. So many thoughts seem to stream through both of our minds and the silence between us is leaden with words that need not be spoken.

The distant shadow of a meandering crew member is silhouetted starkly against the gloomy skyline behind him as we approach the ramp onto the small boat that is docked in front of us. As we approach, Erik produces two tickets from his cloak and holds them out to the bewildered young grip who stands before us.

This is a turning point for both of us… an incredible change in both of our lives is about to occur. Erik, I know has travelled quite extensively throughout his lifetime… I, on the other hand, have grown up in Paris since I was very young. I was born in Sweden, but that can hardly count as world travel as I can barely remember anything about my life there. My very early memories are filled with images of my father, yet I cannot seem recall the little house by the sea in which I lived with him.

And now… now I am on board a ship and en route to a country that is completely foreign to me…

Emily, my friend who has been so kind in helping us acquire a home in London, was once a fellow member of the company of the Opera Populaire. We were very young when we last saw each other, but we've corresponded by letter ever since. I felt no fear in sharing with her the details of my lessons with my beloved "Angel of Music" over a year ago, and I feel no hesitation now in involving her in our plans to move to England after our marriage.

Marriage… this word also seems to have taken on a rather surreal form in my mind. I've worn his wedding band on my finger for several months now, and yet tonight I feel its true weight as if for the first time…

I know that it will be difficult… Not the marriage itself necessarily, but the task of working through Erik's own acceptance of himself in society… He's already been making plans for me to continue singing in one of the major opera companies in London, but somehow, I fear that any public attention that I receive, will merely drive him further away into shadows.

As the small craft pushes away from the land, I feel a lump begin to rise in my throat. I am standing at the bow of the boat, shivering slightly under the soft fall of raindrops. I look down into the murky waters below, and as the last rays of sunlight vanish from the horizon, I feel his gentle touch on the small of my back.

"Say you'll share with me on love, one lifetime…" he sings softly in my ear.

I turn towards him, allowing the rain to fall softly onto my face.

"Christine, I love you…"

The last note echoes in the darkness as we charge onward through the still waters of a distant, but not forgotten past.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Christine

It's been four months since our arrival in England and we've both settled ourselves quite easily into our new lifestyle. I've started working again, as has Erik.

I've joined an opera company with some prestige in one of the major theatres here, which happens to be located only a few blocks from our home. I was accepted pretty much right away, telling the managers only that I was born and trained in Sweden and nothing more about my past. At first, I believe that they were quite apprehensive about taking on a soprano with such a shadowy past, but after I auditioned one of Erik's original pieces, they seemed very thoroughly convinced of my abilities.

Erik found himself immediately at home at the elegant grande piano that was already placed in the living room of our home when we moved in. Since then, the room has been transformed more into a workshop for him than a living room. It has been filled with heaps of musical scores, sketches and many more of his other artistic experiments. Much like he did in Paris, he spends hours pounding away on the keys, working tirelessly on a masterpiece that he'll never truly reveal to me. He works mainly at night, but the scraps that I am able to witness are exquisite, if not slightly broken in their flow.

It's rather late at night, right now… at least 10:00, I'd say, yet Erik still has not returned from the city. He left several hours ago, saying something about needing to buy art supplies, but still there is no sign of him on the silent street outside the window before which I sit…

I worry about him. It has only been recently that he's ventured out into the public. He always goes under the cover of darkness, of course, but still, a nervous cringe seems to form in the pit of my stomach whenever he is away for any length of time… I guess I should be happy instead of apprehensive. After all, it is I that urged him so often to develop enough confidence within himself to experience the world as the rest of society does… It is, however, rather late tonight…

Perhaps it is not even the hour that is bothering me… There are so many other things that we have to discuss tonight… A shudder assaults my skin as I pull my shawl closer over my shoulders and wrap my arms unconsciously around my waist…

My breath suddenly comes short as I hear a sharp noise behind me. Once again there is silence, but the sound had definitely come from the lower floor of the house. I have seen no one enter our property from the front, and Peggy, our housekeeper has already gone home for the night…

Shivering, I slowly get to my feet, reaching instinctively for the fire poker that sits next to the hearth… I hear a second thump… this time closer to me… almost on the stairs leading into this room.

Silently, I approach the steps, the metal rod securely in my grasp and hidden behind my skirts… I hold my breath and lean stealthily over the railing… A black shape stumbles suddenly onto the bottom step. I scream out in horror as the man turns his face towards me, twisted with more unnatural forces than pain.

"Erik?"

A wave of relief is followed immediately by the crash of concerned nausea that now flows through my body…

"Erik…" I repeat as I rush to his side.

He lies still for a moment, panting to catch his breath, still covering his face with his gloved hand. I reach for his cheek, trying to turn his gaze towards me, but instead he jerks his head away and turns to face the opposite wall. I rest my hand on his shoulder, but quickly withdraw it when I feel the warm dampness that seeps into his cloak.

"Erik, you're bleeding!" I say in horror.

He takes a deep breathe, as though trying to gather both his strength and his pride.

"It's nothing, Christine…"

"Erik…" I try to protest.

"Would you please bring my mask from my room…?"

I can do nothing but stare in horrified concern for him. Where is the mask he wore when he left the house and why was he bothering with replacing one now, at a time like this? He knows I have no care about seeing his face…

"Erik…"

"_Please _Christine" he says with a hint of impatient anger in his voice.

I hurriedly get to my feet and race towards his bedroom. When I return, mask in hand, I find him, not on the stairs, but slouched before the fire place, gingerly removing his cloak.

"Let me help you…" I begin.

"No." he snaps, and then with an apologetic tone; "give me the mask first, please."

I pass the small porcelain object to him, and lower my eyes respectfully as he dons the mask and turns towards me.

"I'm fine, Christine" he says with a wince. "It's only a small cut…"

I turn back towards him and gently examine the wound on his right shoulder. It's true, the cut was not deep, and yet he still seems in pain. I notice him holding his leg uncomfortably in front of him. He seems to notice my gaze and quickly pulls himself to his feet as though to prove the minimalism of his injuries.

"Who did this?" I ask softly.

He hesitates, and I quickly see anger creep into his face - anger, not directed at me, but towards humanity in general.

"No one" he says simply. "Nothing happened."

Without another word, he turns to limp slowly out of the room… No… he cannot push me away like this, not now…

"Erik stop" I say with more assuredness than I feel. "You will not leave this room without talking to me."

A fire erupts in his eyes, immediately. He whirls around and I suddenly sense that unconquerable power that exudes from his very height when he is angered.

"What exactly am I to say, Christine!" he thunders at me.

I stand my ground and do not slouch, even though every molecule in my body wills me to cower at his feet.

"Answer me! What am I to say?"

I suddenly feel his hands on both of my shoulders, their pressure strong on my skin.

"Am I to admit that I cannot even show myself in public for more than an hour without attracting the hateful wrath of society? Can I not even enter a shop or stand by the river without being assaulted by the infernal curiosities of man?"

He turns away now, as if to address not me, but his own inner self.

"They have to look… they always have to look… Do they not understand that by the nature of concealment, some things are simply not meant to be seen?"

I'm at a total loss for words. How can I respond to this jumbled account of his experience tonight? I have no personal knowledge to relate to his situation, and yet I feel certain that there must be some consolation for me to offer.

"Erik I…"

"You should never have returned to me, Christine…" he says bitterly. "I should have realized long ago that this could not possibly work… How could I be so blind as to imagine myself an ordinary man with an ordinary life…?"

A chill silence creeps into my mind. His words stab at my heart with such misdirected precision that I can hardly contain the urge to cry out in horror.

"STOP IT!" I shout suddenly. "Stop it right now!"

He turns once again to me in dismissive surprise. His greyish eyes bear into me with hatred-veiled love and I feel my body weakening and tears beginning to form on my cheeks.

"Erik, you can't give up on this!" I sob. "You cannot give up on this now!"

He towers over me, as I feel the last supports of my strength crashing down around me.

"Erik…" his name echoes limply from my lips. "Erik, I'm pregnant…"

Somewhere in the distance of my own chest, a war drum pounds thunderously through the silence… I watch his descending back as he walks with wooden steps from the room. The door slams loudly behind him…


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Erik

"You!" she screams. "you ruined my life the day you were born – ruined it… ruined it! I hate you, I hate the very sight and sound of you… your devil's face and your angel's voice! There are plenty of angels in hell, did you know that? I wish to God you were there with them, where you belong. I wish you were dead, do you hear me? I wish you were dead!"

I will not cry as her words slice through me like a knife… I will not allow myself to cry… I cannot give her that satisfaction! Instead, I feel myself begin to shake uncontrollably with rivers of suppressed anger and discontent that flow through my veins.

In my mind's eye, I relive this moment, seeing my own childish form cowering before the woman of whom all I ever asked from was love… I had asked for her love… I had longed, above all things in my childhood, for the nurturing compassion of my mother.

"What is it you want, Erik?" she had asked on a different occasion.

Her voice pounds in my head as I twist my fingers together as I did when I was a boy… I ached with longing and fear of being rejected the compassion that I so desperately craved…

"Kisses…" I whispered tremulously…

My voice cuts through the silence of the living room of my own house. In reality, I find myself crouched on the floor of my home… a grown man – living and breathing… but in my head, I am back in that small parlour in France, watching in agony as my mother recoils in fear of my innocent request.

"You must not ask that" she sobs. "You must never never ask that again…do you understand me, Erik…? Never!"

"Never!" I shout into the silence of the darkened room.

"Never… never… never…" I had chanted to myself through my tears that night. I had left her presence and retreated to my room… to my darkness…

"Never… never… never…"

I was killing my own mother with my very existence… I knew then, that I had destroyed her life. I had cursed her with my own creation… I had stripped her of that natural prettiness and glamour that had once surrounded her, and condemned her to an existence of darkness…

"Never… never… NEVER!"

I promised myself that night… NEVER should any chid be forced to endure such a love forsaken hell!

"Animals have no souls" said the priest when I was seven.

"Take off the mask!" cried an angry mob when I was nine. "Yes, take off the mask!"

"As soon as master's gone, we'll jump him, agreed? Get that mask off and see what's underneath…" whispered a workman when I was sixteen.

"A cage, sir, is where you belong and where I would most gladly see you confined, like the hideous beast that you are…" shouted a Persian government official when I was twenty.

And tonight… tonight, a drunken mob had attacked from the ironic shadows in which I usually hid… What did they want? A laugh? A Scare? A freak show?

These memories strangle my senses and I drown in my own despair… slowly rocking back and forth on the floor of my living room.

A father… is something that I was never… never… NEVER… meant to be…

I had, of course, considered the possibility when Christine and I were married, but my own infernal heart could not control itself…

What have I done? What have I done to her? I'm sure to have destroyed her life the same way I destroyed my mother's… It was selfish enough for me to take her as my own and condemn her to a life of loving a monster… but to curse her with the birth of my child… my child… with my face…

And what of this child? Thinking back to the horrible cruelties that I have encountered throughout my life, I feel nothing but intense guilt for having created a life that can only result in those horrible situations that I have fought through since my own birth…

I cringe slightly as the pain in my leg brings me back to the present… Even at my age, I still face the torment of drunken mobs… taunting and jeering… attacking and haunting every step that I dare take out of my door… What hope could any child of mine have for normalcy in their live?

A small strip of light creeps across the floor, and I hear the silent creak of the door opening… I cannot turn to look at her. I cannot see her face, or allow her to see mine.

For years, I have made a point, never to show shame. But in this moment, I cannot bear to even make eye contact with my wife as she creeps gingerly into the room.

For a long moment, there is complete silence and stillness between both of us… Then, I feel her arms enclose around me. She bends down at my side and envelops my own shuddering frame with her arms.

There we sit, huddled on the floor, bathed in a pool of moonlight. I continue to rock back and forth unconsciously, and she still holds me like the poor, wimpering child I once was… a child…

"I'm sorry, Erik…" she whispers.

Sorry…? Why on earth should she be sorry? If any apologies were needed tonight, they would be from me…

"Erik… I didn't think for a moment how you might take this… I didn't imagine you to feel anything but happiness… I…"

"Happiness!" I suddenly snap through the darkness. "You mean to tell me that you're actually happy about this?"

"Erik, this baby…"

I stand at once in fury, ripping away the mask from my face and whirling around to face her…

"This baby… is the offspring of a monster! Do you really sense hope for such a creature?"

She stands to meet my height and stares me straight in the eye.

"Stop talking like this!" she cries. "Can you not hear yourself? Do you not understand how irrationally you are acting! Erik…"

She is suddenly very close to me and I feel the light touch of her palm on the right side of my face. She strokes my skin gently and I sense her tears seeping into my soul as if through that simple, physical connection she has bonded her very heart with mine.

"I love you…" she says. "I love this face that you so quickly condemn to solitude and hatred…"

I feel my arm being controlled by her steady grip as my hand comes to rest softly on her abdomen.

"I love you… and I will love this baby."

She captures my eyes in hers with absolute certainty.

"And so will you…"


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Christine

It's about ten o' clock in the morning as I hurry towards the entrance hall to answer the beckoning door. Just upon entering the small foyer, Peggy, our dear English housekeeper intercepts and holds out a stern finger as she blocks the door with her plump frame.

"You'll not be running around this house like that in your condition ma'am. I'll keep to receiving your company."

I smile resignedly as she turns to unlock the door. A small figure with striking red hair stands on the doorstep, grinning from ear to ear as her gaze falls upon me.

"Good morning, Christine" she says with a wink.

"Good morning, Emily… Peggy, it's alright you may let her in."

Emily is a sweet girl, shorter than me, but she always holds herself with an air of superiority that comes from deprivation of such traits in early childhood. She steps over the threshold and Peggy helps her to hang up her hat and gloves.

"Well, it's about time you've invited me over, Christine. It's been weeks since my last visit."

We make our way down the hall towards the parlour, heading silently passed the locked door to the former living room on our right. Just as we are about to turn the corner into the next hallway, Emily jumps in surprise as a tumultuous note booms from behind the closed door.

"What on earth…?"

I myself jump slightly at the sudden outburst of music, but quickly grab hold of Emily's arm and continue to lead her towards the parlour.

"It's Erik" I say with a small laugh. "He's been working all day…"

"Erik is here?" asks Emily in surprise.

Despite having visited several times since we moved here, Emily has yet to meet Erik face to face… Usually when he hears that I'll be receiving company, Erik retreats into the basement or the attic for the afternoon. I usually tell Emily that he's gone into the city or some other excuese. For the passed few days, however, Erik has been working so tirelessly in his study that I couldn't bear to disturb him. It's been so long since Emily's last visit, and I doubt if Erik will even become aware of her presence.

"Yes, he's here today…" I respond quietly as we take our seats around the small coffee table. "But he's quite busy, working."

"I would so like to meet him…" says Emily, as Peggy begins to serve tea.

"You'll not be meeting Master Erik today missy" comes Peggy's stern, English accent.

We were quite fortunate when we hired Peggy, in that she was essentially a fearless woman. She feared neither Erik, nor telling other people what they could and could not do with concerns to Erik's household. She was an incredibly old fashioned woman who, even in her middle ages, spent her time reading and repeating tales of romance and chivalry from old Arthurian legends. Her morals on romance and marriage were almost as hard to avoid as her demands that I eat properly, dress warmly, and get enough sleep… these particular orders, however, I had a sneaking suspicion were being reinforced in poor, Peggy's brain by Erik, who, himself was too introverted to give them himself.

They had an interesting relationship, Peggy and Erik. She often made him laugh, which was something that I, myself had been stretched to try and do in our marriage. She was just as stern as he was and they both often seemed to ally against me on topics prudent to my own health and well being.

In the first week that we lived here, Erik was quick to anger when dealing with Peggy, but soon found confidence that she had absolutely no fear of him, nor did she have any curiosity as to what lay beneath Erik's mask. My job, when meeting new people, was to approach the person and try very sensibly to explain, without any reference to our past, why Erik covered his face. The idea was that then, hopefully there would be no prying Pandoras among our household, eager to fulfill their own curiosity.

"I don't even want to know ma'am" Peggy had exclaimed when I began this conversation with her. "I believe that Master Erik be a good man. Even good men have their secrets and it's nobody's business but theirs if they wants to keep them."

I had had no idea where to go in the conversation from there. My first reaction, of course, was guilt that in my past, I hadn't had such logic in my own brain when concerning Erik.

"Oh well then" says Emily, bringing me back to the present conversation. "Tell me, Christine. You must be so excited! You and Erik both! I am so happy for you!"

"What?" I ask, momentarily confused.

"The baby, silly!" she says, her hand patting mine lovingly.

"Oh yes, of course!" I laugh. "Yes, we're both ecstatic…"

I catch a glimpse of Peggy's knowing eye from behind the table… She has been made only too aware of Erik's true anxiety over the situation, and has, on more than one occasion, attempted to "knock some sense into the man", mainly by constantly bickering her English babble in his ear day after day… To no effect, I might add.

"And you're still working, Christine?"

"Yes" I say, quickly avoiding Peggy's gaze. "Yes, at least until this production is over… it's only another week or so until the finale."

"Not right…" mumbles Peggy from the other side of the room. "It's just not right, Christine! You should be at home and off your feet, not prancing around a theatre with who knows what filth…"

"I have the lead role, Peggy" I protest. "Erik thinks…"

"Master Erik agrees that you shouldn't be taxing yourself like this!" she exclaims determinedly.

I role my eyes with a quick smile at Emily.

"We've had this conversation at least twenty times, Emily."

"And you're still as stubborn as a mule!" Peggy exclaims, picking up her skirts and heading for the kitchen.

The rest of the visit is passed pleasantly between us, laughing and reliving so many memories from our childhoods. Updating each other on the comings and goings of our own lives, and similarly so, the lives of those around us.

I have almost forgotten what its like to have a close friend to gossip and laugh with. Since we've moved here, my life has generally been devoted to working, and trying to coax Erik out of the shadows to come and see my performances once in a while. Emily has been wonderful to talk to, and a loyal friend, despite my hesitation in inviting her over too often.

After an hour or so, we creep back, passed the living room, where sure enough, Erik still contains himself, pounding away on the piano. Peggy rushes into the foyer to retrieve Emily's belongings, laden with several packages of baked goods to send along with her.

"It's been a lovely visit, Christine" she says with a smile and a small embrace.

"Yes, I'm so glad that you…" I suddenly stop mid sentence as I become aware of the silence in the room next to me.

Footsteps resound quietly from the living room and the door slowly creaks open… Erik steps out, his hair rather tousled and the front of his shirt carelessly unbuttoned. He is breathing hard, as if his compositions have been physically taxing to him, and the mask on his face, is clearly outlined against his flushed skin. He stops dead when he sees Emily standing next to me.

I'm afraid to move to glance at Emily's expression, and instead stare dead ahead as Erik stiffens and glares accusingly at my friend… A long moment passes in which no one in the room seems to breathe. Then, suddenly… incredibly, Emily moves from behind me and approaches Erik, her hand outstretched.

"You must be Erik" she says pleasantly, as if she were talking to any other person in the world. "I am so glad to finally meet you!"

Erik hesitates, undecidedly glancing, momentarily at me, and then back to the woman who stands in front of him. Both Peggy and I, hold our breath in apprehension.

"You are?" he asks, his voice suddenly a pleasant, disbelieving whisper.

"Emily" she says. "I'm Emily."

"A pleasure to meet you, Emily" he says quietly.

He then turns to me with a nervous, uncomfortable smile.

"Perhaps Emily would like to stay for lunch, Christine"


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Erik

The house lights dim slightly as the orchestra picks up the first chord of the fifth act overture – that bassoon is flat, by the way – and I feel myself begin to relax into my seat.

I do so miss the days when I could release my criticisms anonymously to the management of the opera house. It was always so fulfilling to see my expert opinions set into play through the fearful owners. This company can surely use some criticisms of their orchestra – even the insufferable Monsieur Reyer would agree if he were here, that the British conductor himself is severely out of sync with his company.

Peggy shivers excitedly in the seat next to me as the chorus takes their places on stage. I do not believe that our housekeeper has ever attended an opera before, and Christine's finale performance seemed the perfect opportunity to invite her. Somehow, with this simple, yet excitable woman sitting next to me, I, myself, feel more at ease in the public eye.

This is only about the third or fourth time that I have attended one of Christine's performances – I have, of course, been willing to support her when she asks, but I've been immensely appreciative that she has rarely done so, understanding all too well my discomfort at showing myself so blatantly in society.

The intermissions, so far, have been the most difficult to get through. All the socialites around us rise from their seats, and with the absence of the darkling shadows, I am powerless to hide from their wandering stares.

Don't get me wrong, I fully enjoy these performances. I am always so proud to see her on stage. She lights up every production she is a part of… I love seeing her perform… but I often wish that I had my own magical box from which to view her, as I did in Paris.

This performance, in particular, has gone incredibly well… every not perfected, every pitch flawlessly delivered…

Next to me, Peggy lets out a small gasp as Christine appears and makes her way to centre stage… I watch her fervently, and for a moment feel her eyes match mine… We are alone in the crowd, and memories flow between us like quicksilver…

_Donde lieta uscì al tuo grido d'amore, al tuo grido d'amore torna sola Mimì al solitario nido…_

It's suddenly the first time that I ever saw her… I'm listening in awe as her voice resounds crystally around the emptied opera house that we both unknowingly occupy…

It's the first time she hears my voice… after months of watching over her… memorizing her every move and feature, I finally find the strength to make myself known…

"Angel…?" she had asked, awestruck… So innocent and so trusting she was…

It's the first time she sees my face, as I lead her, entranced, into the bowels of the opera house…

_Ritorna un'altra volta a intesser finti fior. Addio, senza rancor…_

She's walking towards me with fearful hesitation outside her father's grave… she's holding a bouquet of roses, her hair frosted with a charcoal veil… I had almost seen her as my bride that night… my living bride, in a kingdom of death…

We are balanced atop the catwalk, burning with the trembling fires of song that seem to surround only us… I feel my arms around her… overconfident, but completely out of the control of my irrational brain… I feel her close to me… her skin blazing against mine… her hand reaching stealthily towards my face… towards my mask…

The dungeons of my mind… I stand before her… trembling and helpless as a child…

"God give me courage to show you, you are not alone…"

Time expands as she ventures heatedly towards me… a sacrificial lamb, lead into the embrace of the preyful tiger… I do not touch her as she kisses me… My arms stiffen uselessly at my sides as I feel her love seep into my being through the first real kiss of my life…

"Take her… Forget me…"

_Ascolta, ascolta. Le poch robe aduna che lasciai sparse…_

Alone in my sanctuary… alone in my darkness… alone… alone… alone…

Pounding up the corridor… Anticipation begins to hammer on my chest like a drum. I force myself to halt in my steps and lean weakly against the wall...

"It's nonsense, Erik... Nonsense! She's gone... you are dreaming... there is no one in that room for you..."

_Nel mio casseto stan chiusi quell cerchietto d'or e il libro di preghiere…_

A rouge breeze blows rose petals across her lap… she nears the corner of the cold stone court yard and turns in shock to see me looming behind her…

"Erik…" She whispers my name for the first time in over a year…

She came back to me… She came back… She… came… back…

A darkened boat, over darkened waters… Plunging ahead towards a new life…

"Christine, I love you…"

_Involgi tutto quanto in un grembiale e mandero il portiere…_

A drunken mob… shouting and jeering… beating and reaching… reaching towards this mask… this face… this face…

"Erik, you cannot give up on this now…" she sobs despondently… "Erik, I'm pregnant…"

A door slams… and darkness consumes…

Rocking… steadily… back and forth… her arms wrapped lovingly around my shuddering frame…

"I love you…" she says. "I love this face that you so quickly condemn to solitude and hatred… I love you… and I will love this baby…"

_Bada, sotto il guanciale c'e la cuffietta rosa… Se vuoi serbaria a ricordo d'amor! Addio, senza rancor…_

The final note bursts from her lungs now and the present overcomes my senses… The audience is applauding… cheering… rising from their seats and throwing rosebuds at her feet…

As the crowd rages onward, she holds that last, shivering vibrato to a euphenatic climax… then… almost as beautifully as the sound itself… silence befalls her voice, and I watch in horror as her body tumbles limply to the floor in a helpless faint of exhaustion.

Numbness spreads through my body as I scramble desperately through the audience, followed closely by a gasping and hysterical Peggy… By the time I reach the stage, Christine has already disappeared in the arms of several crew members… her dressing room… she'll be headed backstage….

I scramble onto the stage, pushing hastily through the company, no longer caring who takes notice of the incongruous mask on my face. This mad journey seems eternal as I wind my way through the maze of the opera house. I've only been backstage once and finding her dressing room is difficult, especially when the halls are so crowded with people.

"Johnny, get the hell outa here, I say!" shouts an authoritative voice from somewhere behind me.

I spin around just in time to see a scrawny looking stage hand being pushed, roughly out of a door.

"If you want to make yourself useful, fetch the doctor, will you?"

The door suddenly slams loudly, as I pound determinedly towards the young grip who now stands dejectedly in the hallway.

"Move out of the way, boy" I snarl, pushing past and reaching for the door handle.

"Oy! You can't go in there" he says defiantly. "She's to be kept undisturbed!"

I turn on him, rising to her full height and looming overhead in defiance.

"If I were you, I would run for the doctor like you were told and leave me to my business…"

He suddenly glances the mask on my face, which until now has been mostly hidden by shadows. A short gasp escapes his lips before, once again he, takes his stance and responds.

"And what business is that?" he asks in his thick British accent. "Who are you that has the authority…"

"I am her husband, if you must know, and it will do you well, in the future, to stay out of my way!"

I push passed him angrily and burst into the small dressing room. A small collection of stage ma'ams, and one of the managers stand excitedly around a small divan…


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Christine

"Leave us" says a gruff voice from somewhere in the bustling room that surrounds me.

"Excuse me, Sir, but I am the company doctor!"

"My own medical knowledge will be sufficient for the care of my wife. Now leave us!" shouts the first voice. "Leave us!"

From the comfort of the divan, I am barely aware of the rapid scurries and spluttering of the occupants of my dressing room as they hasten to leave as quickly as possible. A moment of silence surrounds us before I feel his palm on my forehead, gently bringing me back to full consciousness.

"Christine" he whispers softly to me.

My eyes remain closed as I struggle through the dizzy haze that surrounds me.

"I'm fine, Erik" I manage to reply.

I hear the slightest hint of a sigh of relief from his voice as he gently grasps my shoulders and pulls me upward.

"You shouldn't be wearing these silly costumes in your condition" he says with a sudden air of annoyance. Beneath that tone, however, I hear true fear and concern in his voice.

Slowly, I feel his hands move towards my back, and the lacings of my corset. He hesitates for a moment before air rushes back into my lungs. I lay back down as his fingers tenderly trace the bend of my throat, searching out the sporadic rhythm of my heart.

"Erik, I told you. I'm fine. Please don't worry"

"You should never have been performing at all, Christine" he grumbles, moving his fingers, now, towards my wrist.

"Well, I'm finished now" I respond. "That should satisfy the concerns of both you and Peggy"

I lean up gingerly on one arm, waiting for the spinning inside my own head to stop. Erik gets to his feet slowly and walks towards the other side of the room where a large, full-length mirror stands – very similar to another one in the Paris Opera house – He approaches the glass, looking, transfixed upon it, as if seeing something beyond his own reflection.

"Were you proud, Erik?" I ask quietly from the couch.

He turns slowly to face me, as if having forgotten, momentarily that I was there.

"What did you say?"

"You made no mention of the performance tonight" I say. "I was hoping that I made you proud…"

It is not usually like me to so blatantly address him this way. Erik's thoughts are his own, and I rarely seek to pry into them. Tonight however, I feel the need to hear a softened word from him… to know his real opinion of my performance.

He says nothing as he reaches fluidly into the confines of his cloak. He approaches slowly and bends down to my level, producing a perfectly-formed, scarlet rose, enclosed with a black, satin ribbon.

"You sang like an Angel" he replies with a wry smile.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Christine

The cool breeze played softly across our faces as we walked pleasantly along side the river. His arms were wrapped protectively around my shoulders and our gloved hands intertwined. It was a strange juxtaposed union of souls, although I guess our relationship in general could be described that way. His black, leather clad fingers weaved themselves tenderly among my ivory covered ones, and his strong, powerful arms covered my own weak frame like a blanket. I felt so safe in those arms. So utterly at peace.

The air was electric that night and the wind blew silently, but with the promise of a great storm later that night. I loved nights like this. The calm before the storm always gave me such excitement and inspiration. That incredible anticipation that I felt, as if Mother Nature herself was holding her breath, always seemed to prove for me the existence of God. How could such power be released into this world without a force behind it? It was a topic that I often wrote about in my journal, but never dared to bring up with Erik. He had turned away from religion long ago, and although he humoured me in my own religious beliefs about our marriage, I knew that his devotion to the Church extended only to his love for me, and not for the Church itself. I shivered very slightly as a rogue gust lifted my cloak.

"You're cold, my dear" he whispered. "I told you to wear a warmer cloak."

This was always how he spoke to me. He veiled his true emotion with trivial criticisms. At first I was hurt by this personality trait. I felt that I needed to hear his devotion to me through his voice, but instead I received mostly harsh grumblings of disapproval for some aspect of my behaviour. As his young apprentice, nothing frustrated me more than not hearing his praise at the end of a lesson or performance. It wasn't until I started to receive the roses that I began to understand. Erik was a man of many thoughts, but few words. I often wished that I could peer into his mind and understand what he was really thinking. I've only just realized that I can already do that, without peering into his mind.

We have a great understanding for each other. I've learned that basically anything Erik really means to say, he says between the lines of his actual dialogue. His criticisms are simply a shield that he has built for himself as a result of his many misfortunes throughout his life. He made up his mind a long time ago never to let anyone into his heart. Instead, I must find a way of penetrating those iron walls that he has built around his soul by some other means.

"I'm fine Erik." I say with a smile, and by the moonlight I can see a subtle grin flash across his mouth as well.

We come to a small bench up ahead and he motions for me to sit.

"Shall we rest for a moment?"

Of course, what he means is, "you should rest for a moment". We sit side by side in silence for a moment, my shoulders, never leaving the protection of his embrace. 

I lay my head against his chest, and I can hear his heart beat a steady, melodic rhythm that plays harmoniously with the sounds of nature that surround us. Only in Erik's presence can I hear that music. That exalted burst of passion that seems to emanate from his very soul. I hear that music even in silence. It surrounds us now. Erik magically pulls back the curtain of my senses and I hear him play on the wind as if it were a flute, the river as if it were a horn, the creaking boughs of the trees as if they were golden harps, and his heart... his heart is the drum. The constant, unfailing north star that aligns every orchestra from the soul and brings it to that triumphant euphony of sound.

I feel the small life within me begin to stir as if awoken by that unheard music which radiates so completely from the man next to me. As if he too senses the movement, I feel his hand move slowly around my waist and come to rest on my barely visible abdomen. I'm sure that he cannot feel what I can. Even I sense it subconsciously more than physically. But on another level, we both feel that life between us.

A shout in the distance breaks the beautiful silence between us. Instantly, I feel Erik tense around me as he pulls his top hat lower over his white, porcelain mask. Neither of us look around to see the source of the disturbance, but we both hear their drunken dialogue crystal clear.

"Hey Barney! You hear about that little diva the other night?" One of the men gives a disgusting belch in response.

"Hell yes I did. I was in the wings tendin' to the sand bags when it happened. Fainted dead centre she did." responded a different voice.

This time it's I who tenses at these words.

"Well I heard she's knocked up, and that's why she's turning down the lead in the next production."

"You don't say? That little slut? I wonder who the lucky man is."

Without warning, Erik made a move to whip around and face the drunken group. I feel his hand leave mine and tighten into a violent fist. Oh God, he'll kill them...

"Erik no!" I whisper urgently, and using all of my strength, I grab him by the shoulders and force him to face me once more. He struggles against my grip, and for a moment, I almost thought that in his rage he would throw me off completely.

"Erik..." I grab hold of either side of his neck and pull his mouth towards mine. His rage was strong, but the kiss was stronger. I feel his anger melt tremulously away from him as he deepens the embrace. As we pull apart, I notice that both he and I are both shaking. I don't know if it is fear, anger, or love that has caused us to tremble so, but as tears seep out of both of our eyes, I know that he'll make no further attempt to face the speakers.

"Nah, she's married ya know!" This voice belongs to a different man. He is younger and I vaguely recognize him as one of the junior scene shifters. There is a murmur of interest among the group.

"Married? That little minx? Johnny, I ain't never seen her wif no husband."

"It's true! He was there the night she fainted. I saw it! I saw the whole thing." continued Johnny excitedly. "He's a weird looking fella. Right outa the freak show if yeh ask me. Wears a mask over half his face. Ugly as I ever saw."

At this comment, I lower my eyes instinctively. I cannot look him in the eyes. I can't. If I did, I know that I wouldn't be able to keep that horrible look of pity out of my face, and I know that above all things that Erik hates, pity is the worst. Instead, I take his hand, which has gone limp in his lap, and squeeze it tight. I feel no answering motion in return.

"I seen him around!" shouts another voice. "Nasty temper he's got. I sure as Hell wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of him!"

"Well that's just it." Johnny continued. "The night she fainted, he stormed into her dressin' room and ordered everyone out. I wouldn't doubt if he beats her when he's angry. He seemed in an awful temper that night."

"Much older he is, isn't he?" asked Barney.

"Hell yeah. Coulda been her father the old sod could've."

"Whatcha think a little minx like Christine Daae is doin wif an ugly, deformed, geezer like him?"

"Hell if I know." There is a murmur of agreement and the smashing of several bottles on the ground. In their drunken laughter, the crowd begins to disperse in the opposite direction, and Erik and I are alone once more.

We sit in silence for a long moment. I feel his heart beat rapidly against my touch and his breath comes in short, angry puffs.

"Erik I..." I begin, but the rest of the words I had intended to say are lost in my own throat.

Suddenly, as if just realizing that I was there, he violently whips off his cloak and ties it around my shoulders with none of the tenderness I have come to know in his touch.

"You shouldn't be out in the cold like that!" he shouts angrily, and grabbing my elbow he hurries me back to our waiting carriage.

He sits in stony silence opposite me and gazes out the window in determined solitude. I slowly move myself across the cab to sit beside him. I long to return to that musical embrace that we had shared before those drunken idiot interrupted us. I take his hand in mine, but he recoils as if repulsed by my very presence next to him. I know that I can do no more tonight.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty One

Erik

Frustration hammers at my scull as I pound viscously on the keys in front of me. Nothing works… every chord comes out jumbled and discordant, every note misplaced and every placement of my fingers is clumsy and out of alignment.

I breathlessly lie my shaking hands down and lean my burning forehead onto the piano before me.

_In solitude again are we, Erik?_

I've not moved from this room for two days… at least not during daylight, while there is a chance of having to face her. That I cannot do… not after the shame that I brought upon her the other night…

"_He's a weird looking fella. Right outa the freak show if yeh ask me. Wears a mask over half his face. Ugly as I ever saw."_

I lay a finger on the smooth porcelain that melds to my skin and shut my eyes against the memories that encircle my senses.

"_Well I heard she's knocked up, and that's why she's turning down the lead in the next production."_

She hadn't even told me that she had been offered the lead, or any role at all in future productions. What was she afraid of? That I would have wanted her to take the job? Certainly not! I was against the idea of her working through her pregnancy even for the first few months.

I hate myself for making her think she could not trust me with such news… I hate myself for allowing her to perform at all in that last production… I hate myself for putting her in circumstances where she must leave that which she loves best… I hate myself for hating that child which she apparently loves! I hate myself for the shame and embarrassment that I bring upon her at the opera house… I hate myself for… I hate myself…

I push savagely away from the piano, clasping the back of my neck as if to burn away that taunting game that I constantly play in my own head…

"I hate myself" is a game that I've played since childhood, and indeed is very childish in nature. Whenever I reach that point where humiliation and rage seems to completely consume, I turn to this abstract form of comfort…

"I hate myself for taking away her place in the social circle that she should belong to… I hate myself for not having the courage to face her after those drunken comments… I hate myself for every time I raised my voice to her… for every compliment I never gave… for every touch I ever ignored… for every gaze I ever turned away from… I hate myself for condemning her to darkness… I hate myself for cursing her with my own child… I hate myself for hurting her…"

I mumble these words softly under my breath as I rock steadily back and forth, bent over the piano bench. Slowly, I raise my head and stare towards the other side of the room… I feel my eyes graze hungrily over a small box that sits, silent and unnoticed, below a large shelf of books and musical scores. I stand up, robotically, as if to approach the object… it's been so long… so long since…

NO! No, Erik… this is not the way to escape your own misery…

I can feel my pulse quickening in apprehension, and my chest begins to tighten… I turn my back rapidly on that box and face the door with quiet determination. It takes me only a second to escape that room, and when I find myself panting in the hallway, I'm surprised to find the last rays of daylight fighting to breakthrough the dark clouds that roll ominously across the sky.

The house is dark and silent, and I somehow feel as though I'm a stranger or thief in a foreign home…

"Master Erik!" exclaims a surprised voice from down the hallway.

I turn slowly to face the dark form before me. Peggy stands hunched over her needlework in the entrance to the kitchen.

"Where is she?" I whisper softly.

"I'm sorry, sir?" Peggy questions.

"My wife… where is Christine."

A strange expression crosses over the housekeepers face… one of almost… dare I say distain?

"I'm sorry sir, she's gone to bed. She wasn't feeling well."

I nod silently and turn towards the staircase on my left. The journey to the top seems shorter, somehow, than usual… I reach the landing and approach the closed door at the end of the corridor…

For a moment, I rest my hand on the smooth coolness of the bronze door knob. There is only silence within the room… deep silence which seeps from under the door and tangles itself around me. My heart pounds faster as I turn the handle and enter the room.

It is dark. The curtains are drawn tight against the outside world, and despite my exceptional eyesight, I find myself feeling for obstacles as I stealthily approach her bed.

She is lying on her side, with her back to me. Her long, brown curls spread over her pillow like an angel… Her eyes are closed, and yet something about her sporadic breathing and her unnatural stillness makes me certain that she was fully conscious only a second ago.

I stand completely still for a long moment, hardly willing to breath in that deathly silence that surrounds us.

Should I speak to her? I know that she is not asleep… and she knows that I know… but what can I say? What can I ever manage to say to her?

Her breathing continues… in and out… slow and rhythmic… I feel my arm extend and my fingers reach towards her uncovered shoulder. I long so much to show her compassion… to reach out to her… to let her know every infernal beat of my accursed heart… to touch her…

The tips of my fingers hover an inch away from her skin… I move them downward as if stroking her arm, but touching only air…

I pause suddenly, and clench my outstretched fingers into furious fist.

I can't do it… I cannot bring myself to touch her… A monster like me has no right to do so… In my mind I am flooded with images of her cowering away from my touch in repulsion… repulsed by this loathsome angel of darkness…

I turn hurriedly and rush from the room, not bothering to silence the slamming of the door. Outside, I lean heavily on the cold metal handle and sink down to the floor in exhaustion.

From behind me, I hear her tremulous sobs, echo around the emptiness of her room…

Like a coward I flee back to my sanctuary… to my own darkness… I kneel on the floor beside the piano and, with trembling hands, open the small wooden box that sits at my feet.

The syringe lies delicately in the box amid several small, glass vials. I pick up the needle and open it to the treacherous liquid that I have, for so long, gone without.

It has been years since I last injected myself with morphine… It had not been an easy addiction to break free from…

I hold out my forearm and position the needle…

I hate myself…


	22. Chapter 22

Thank you guys sooooo much for your comments. I'm so glad you're enjoying it. I know I haven't posted in quite a while but I've finally made a plan for the rest of this phic and I'm quite excited about how it's going to end… insert evil laugh here.

Anyway, I've tried to really experiment in this chapter and number 21 about Erik's inability to really have any physical connection to Christine at certain times in his life… If you notice in the movie, Gerard Butler did a fabulous, yet rather stealthy job of portraying this particular characteristic of Erik's personality. During the last labyrinth scene, when Christine goes to kiss him… Erik does not move, nor does he make any attempt to touch her back. He simply stands stalk still and allows her to come to him in absolute disbelief. A lot of people are down on GB for his portrayal of Erik, but that particular moment I think is absolute brilliance. He understands the character far better than many people think, if you watch him closely.

I believe that Erik thinks that he cannot physically touch Christine… or anyone for that matter, without causing them great pain. It's just another one of his insecurities that absolutely fascinates me about his character… Anyway, here's the next Chappy… Hope you enjoy!

Chapter Twenty Two

Christine

The flickering glow from the candle beside my bed plays upon the rough texture of the ceiling and transfigures every bump and groove into a face, leering down at me. The events of the passed few days whiz through my mind at breakneck speeds and I stare blindly at the millions of omnipotent masks above. Frustrated, I sit up, curled among the bedclothes and try to force my own brain into silence. Far from helping, this sudden movement only sends my head spinning as the room around me blurs into a dizzy whir of sickening motion.

It's been two days since I last saw him. Once we returned home after hearing those rioters by the river the other night, I tried to talk to him… tried to explain that I don't care what was said – that I never have and never will – but he just stormed into his sanctuary and slammed the door. That was the last time I saw him… I remember clawing at the cold unforgiving door in my own anguish and sliding downwards into a heap on the floor.

My intention had been to wait him out – to stay at the foot of that door until he emerged… until he picked me up into his arms and everything was alright again… I wanted so badly to simply return to our melodious dream world where no one else existed… not the opera company, nor the rude public that tormented him so, not those imbeciles by the river, or even the ghosts that still haunted us from the past… That dream never became a reality and perhaps it never will.

I was so sure in the beginning that we could make this work that we could live a normal life together… that we could possess everything that a normal couple would – a house, a marriage… a family – all things that I believed would bring us together… I was stupid to think that normalcy was a plausible goal for us… our relationship has never been "normal", so why should I have expected our marriage go be? I was so sure in the beginning… but now I've accepted the unstableness of our every day existence together… accepted it and even embraced it.

I slowly tilt my head downwards and curl myself into a ball, rocking slowly back and forth in the centre of my bed. The movement is soothing, and through my own dizziness, I can almost feel his arms around me… comforting and strong… protecting and tender.

Two nights ago, I had fallen to the ground in front of his door and stayed there until morning, without a single note of recognition from him inside that room. Peggy found me the next day, curled up and shivering on the threshold… completely alone in almost every sense of the word.

I don't know if it was grief that brought on the fever or simply a natural weakness in my body at this time in my pregnancy, but I've spent the passed two days struggling for a few moments of comfort in a dizzy haze of nausea and despair. Peggy has stayed dutifully by my side, but I long for his touch even more than I do for my own pain to cease.

Several times, I've caught snatches of Peggy's angry mumblings about Erik's "selfish behaviour" and her intentions of going down stairs to give him a "piece of her mind", but as of yet she's never acted on those threats. I believe that she understands as much as I do why Erik has not come to me… He does not know that I've been sick… if he had, I'm certain he would be at my side immediately, dictating orders to Peggy on how best to look after me… He needs his solitude in times of despair as much as I need his comfort now… but he was hurt beyond any pain that I've known in my life, and for him, pain like that does not come without shame and humiliation… no matter how unwarranted.

I want to be understanding and to have strength of my own, while he seems to have none to lend me. It's difficult though, especially now… I hate myself for being so needy… so dependant upon his touch and comfort to get me through the night. Sometimes, when I'm at my worst, I find myself resorting to simple dreams of him… memories of his enveloping embrace at times when we were both happy together. It's at those times when I'm almost certain that he is truly right next to me… singing softly in my ear… his touch penetrating my very soul and bringing me out of my own pain…

That touch is gone now… when I wake up from those feverish hallucinations, the pain in my head has subsided, but the agony around my heart is worse… much worse. In place of his voice, there is only deadening silence… and where I once felt his fingers, there is only naked air…

In the distance of the hallway beyond my bedroom door, I suddenly hear the sound of soft footfall approaching the second floor landing… Without thinking, I hurriedly blow out the flickering candle at my side and slump back down into the softness of my bed. Those are not Peggy's footsteps… they are far too deliberate and weighted… not at all the hurried, excited clicking of the housekeeper's heels.

As a small sliver of light floods through an opening door, I feel my heart begin to race nervously… He's here… he's finally here… I feel my breath come in short, sporadic puffs as I sense him slowly approaching my bedside. He's right beside me… even though my eyes are closed; I can almost see him leaning over me, his white mask gleaming in the dull candlelight from the hallway…

He knows that I am not asleep… the steady stream of smoke from the newly extinguished candle, I'm sure, is only one of the telltale signs that he would have observed upon entering my room. There is a connection present between us that seems to bind our thoughts as much as it does out emotions… yes, he knows that I'm awake… and yet he does not address me at all…

I sense movement behind me, and I know that his fingers are only inches away from my shoulder, and yet, I do not feel that expected brush of his skin on mine…

_Why doesn't he touch me?_

Please Erik… I need to know that you're here… I need to know that you still care… I need that embrace… I need…

The connection is broken in a flash, as I hear him whirl around and rush towards the door. There is a thundering crash, and then a horrible silence that follows.

I feel my shoulders begin to shake and the flood of painful tears that rush onto the pillow beneath me. I am alone… without even the strength to conjure one of his memories to my side.


	23. Chapter 23

Author's Note:

The first part of this chapter up until "slinking around a place only he can perceive", I wrote when I was thirteen for an X Files fic that never really got finished. This was a snippet of the last thing I wrote before my five years of writer's block. Since then, I've read and re-read it countless times and found it quite adaptable to virtually any story or piece. When writing this particular chapter, I was trying to figure out how, having never been on morphine myself, how I was going to write about Erik's drug experiences, and realized that once again, this piece could be adapted quite nicely to the situation. Forgive me if it is rather inaccurate because once again, I've never actually experienced what he's going through first hand. The descriptions I do use, are however, basically what I've experienced during episodes of confusional migraines that I've had… If any one else has suffered from them… you'll know what I'm talking about… Anyway, sometimes people ask what kind of drugs I'm on in order to imagine such weird hallucinations, so just ahead of time, I'll answer… none. Enjoy!

Chapter Twenty Three

Erik

Anger, frustration, confusion… stutter, shiver, stutter…

Helpless, trembling, empty… stutter, shiver, stutter…

Cold, ice, drowning, gasping… stutter, shiver, stutter…

Kill, hate, love, need… kill, hate, love, need…

Stutter… shiver… stutter…

Plummet, cold, dark, black… stutter, shiver, stutter…

Blind, fear, falling, crying, shouting, screaming, dying…

Silence…

I can't think. My mind is a dismal array of light and sound and feeling, but no understanding. I don't know who I am or where I am. All I know is this second which rapidly dissolves into the next, closer and closer to the inevitable.

I am tired and I am weak, but I am awake and I am strong. I'm cold and hot, up and down, left and right. I see light and then darkness… nothingness and yet… something.

A shadow washes over me… A dark pattern blending eerily into the surrounding blackness. A shape jumps out of the gloom… a face… a mask... It leers at me, slinking around a place only he can perceive.

I am a creature of the night, a dark thing that feeds only off of the surrounding shadows of a tortured mind… darkness is my love… darkness is my life… I am Darkness… I… am…become… Darkness…

Stutter… shiver… stutter…

The cold marble of the floor beneath me is lost in the tremors of my mind… My surroundings are trivial… non-existent… unimportant… imaginary… The only real thing I know in this world of diseased dementia is the silvery point of the instrument at my side… that ravenous poison that courses through my heart and eats at my soul… my soul… my mask… my soul… my mask…

A quiver of ice scrambles up my spine as the world turns on end and children scream from the depths of a liquid fire ocean.

"He's here, the Phantom of the opera… Beware, the Phantom of the opera…"

Sing-song voices dance inside my head as dozens of cherubic faces swim in and out of view. They haunt me through days of black and nights of white, springs of death, and falls of life… Small fingers grope and squeeze at the silent pipes of a screaming heart.

"He's there…"

Voices scream out… gurgle and boil…

"He's here…"

Stutter and shiver…

"Die!"

Whisper and hiss…

"Monster!"

Shiver and stutter…

"Beast!"

Shiver…

"Kill!"

Stutter…

"DIE!"

Shiver…

"STOP!"

Light suddenly floods into my mind as a voice breaks through the din… A single voice… pristine and completely discernable… yet not quite understandable…

"Stop… stop Erik… stop and come back…"

"Who is it?"

The words radiate through my brain, yet I have no way of telling if they make it past my lips and into the world of reality in which I now, confusedly, find myself.

"What?" asks the voice.

"Who…?"

"It's Christine…"

_Christine…_

I know that word… I know that word well, and yet why can I not recognize its meaning…? _Christine… Christine… Christine…_

An angel is at my side… singing softly in my ear as clarity begins to envelop my senses…

_Christine… Christine… Christine…_

"Angel of music… you denied me… turning from true beauty… Angel of music… do not shun me… come to me, strange Angel…"

The voice continues… deftly and delicate…

"Erik… come back to me please…"

That haunting melody transforms smoothly into a whisper… barely audible… Shadows begin to emerge once more from the corners of my vision, and again, the faceless masks appear… groping and pleading… screaming and crying… the voice is lost in a forest of fear.

"Don't leave me." I long to scream to the voice… but it's no use… it's all… no use…

Stutter… shiver… stutter…


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: Yes… there is a huge time lapse between Chapter 23 and Chapter 24. This was intentional… I'm a flustered mind, and sometimes I'm a little too subtle with my symbolism etc in my work… I don't intend on showing a first hand account of the missing months through either Christine or Erik, because from the characters point of view… it would only be one big confused blur anyway. I hope you guys understand this chapter as it's really a bit flustered and out of context with the rest of the story. Please let me know if there's any confusion! Cheers!

Chapter Twenty Four

Christine

"Christine… Christine… Where…?"

His distant mumbles seem to travel a long distance across the room before they finally reach me. Entire moments are sucked away in the space of time where he first initiates those sounds, to when my brain actually begins to process their meaning.

I stand in the hallway, just outside the door to his room. He's awake… It's what I've been both longing for and dreading for so long. Three months I guess if you were to take it into broad perspective… It's been three months to the day since Peggy first found him curled up on the floor next to his precious syringe… and every day since then has felt like a month in Hell.

There is a great shuffling of skirts and the familiar clicking of those alarmable heels as Peggy emerges in the doorway. Her face no longer bears the jovial, dimpled complexion that it did when I first met her. She's grown pale and wan, and her once sparkling-blue eyes now seem hollow and vacant.

"He's asking for you, my dear" she says solemnly, as though she regrets the news.

It is a long moment before I begin to stir toward that doorway. I run my fingers first over my shoulders, hugging the woollen shawl closer against the chill of the draughty hallway. As my left arm circles slowly over the swell of my abdomen, I catch an unconscious glimpse of a purple and black space on the back of my wrist… Funny…at this moment the origin of that bruise is completely lost on my mind…

"Christine…"

This time it is Peggy's voice that calls my name.

"Christine you must see him…"

Dropping my swollen hand to my side, I raise my head and slowly approach the darkened confines of his room. He is lying silently on the bed, and for the first time in months, I note that he is completely still – not writhing and shaking in agony.

"Erik…" I whisper softly, unable to force anything more audible out of my throat.

I approach his bedside, and cautiously settle upon the small chair placed there by Peggy. As I move closer towards him, I sense his hand fumbling blindly at his side… searching for something to clasp for strength.

His mask is gone. He seemed to have lost the will, not to mention the piece of mind, to care about any physical presentations weeks ago… At first I tried constantly to keep it on him – out of respect for the wishes he once had for himself. But after a while, it became a futile task, and I eventually abandoned it in lieu of more necessary duties.

"Say it's over, Erik"

His hand gives a second primitive jolt of longing towards mine as he turns his face towards me. His eyes are filled with tears and a remorseful sadness that almost penetrates my very skin. Still I do not take his hand… I cannot yet renew that connection.

"Christine, please…"

He is pleading… This man… this man who once emanated such power from his very being, now lies before me, broken, quivering, and helpless. _Erik, I once thought you were a God… I once thought that if given my permission, you would tear down the entire world if only for my own comfort… and now look at you… Look at you!_

"Promise me that it is over…" I reply evenly. "Promise me that you will never put me through this again."

"How long has it been, Christine?"

His voice is quiet… soft and smooth, and for a moment I almost believe that if I were to close my eyes I would catch a glimpse of that beautiful Angel… No... of that beautiful _man_ that I once knew.

"Three months, Erik… It's been three months. Don't you remember?"

I watch as he struggles for the strength to rotate his head from side to side to show his lack of memories from the past few months. Still his hand reaches out towards mine, in a desperate manoeuvre to feel physical contact with another human being.

"Rose…" he says suddenly, closing his eyes as if finding peace in that single word.

"What?" I ask in confusion.

With an effort that I would have thought him incapable of, he pulls himself upright, his face close to mine. I straighten up, instinctively, and lean stiffly back on my chair, never breaking connection with his eyes.

"Rose" he says again, his gaze determinedly bearing into my own eyes.

I suddenly sense the warmth of his touch on my abdomen and the wetness of his tears as they fall, unchecked and accompanied by my own. I've waited for that touch for so long… and now, in this moment, I wish above all else that I could simply forget every second of the past and feel only that connection between us.

"We'll call her Rose…" he whispers.

As if in agreement, I feel a soft and sudden beat against his touch. I know that he feels it as well, and yet his eyes never waver from their paths into my own.

"Say that you promise" I repeat determinedly.

He traces a finger delicately around my neck and onto the golden pendant with the ruby rose… it was the gift from the Daroga… his only friend at one point…

"I promise" he says softly.

I grasp his hand and do not let go until sunrise.


	25. Chapter 25

A/N: To my readers who have remained unbelievably faithful to me through my neglect of this phic. I am truly sorry I have not been writing pretty much at all since summer started. I'm not going to say that I've been particularly busy as I was in May and June, but more that I was sucked into that awful black hole that wise men like Dr. Seuss warned us about… The Waiting Place… That horrible rutt of presence where one does pretty much nothing but stare at the wall and await motivation, anticipation, or in my case, inspiration. In short, I've once again fallen into a state of writer's block, but your comments and support have motivated me to keep trying. I can't say that tonight I am any more inspired than any other night, but as I sit outside in the darkness, accompanied only by my blanket, my candlelight, my pen/paper, and my faithful dog, Dougal, I'm thinking; "why the hell not? Let's give it a try…" So, my dear readers… here we go again.

PS: I'm also hoping to clear up a bit of what happened during Erik's three month drug induced blur etc. Hope its okay!

PPS: Phruity - Thank you so much! I'm soooo glad you're enjoying it!

Chapter Twenty-Five

Erik

The golden candlelight flickers and dances across the scarlet smoothness of the delicate jewel, encrusted in the gentle confines of an ever-blooming flower.

She is sleeping peacefully now… hopefully, for her sake; she will remain this way for at least eight hours or more… I look down on her now, as she lies solemnly upon the angelic whiteness of her bed linens. Her breath comes slowly and evenly through her mouth – barely disturbing the strands of mahogany hair that envelop her face and shoulders.

Even in sleep, she still clasps my hand next to our unborn child, as if afraid that I could forget what future lies ahead for us. I feel her breathing – in and out, in and out – under my touch, thankful for even the opportunity to, once again, be at her side.

My eyes wander back to the necklace around her throat. It glimmers brightly against her skin and seems to radiate a light completely unto itself.

"_Flower and bird, two species never meant to mate. Yet at length, the rose overcame her fear and from that single forbidden union was born the red rose that Allah never intended the world to know…"_

I remember the good Daroga, himself, telling me that legend, and how it had touched me so deeply when I first met Christine. The Daroga, too, must have had some foresight as to what would become of our relationship. He obviously thought that the rose pendant was as fitting a monument to our relationship as ever there could be.

It was like the pages of fate had suddenly sprung out of their volumes and aligned our lives to match every word of that simple Persian faerie tale.

I know already with utmost certainty that this child will be a girl… There is something completely mystical about it all – some divine pattern emerging in this life that I seem to have caught a glimpse of once, in my hysterical tremors of blackness… Through the dark, I caught sight, if only briefly, some idea of what might be to come…

"_Rose… we'll call her Rose…"_

There was no argument needed from either of our hearts or minds… My daughter, whom I once feared above all else, even in her most primitive and unearthly form, is to be born, and she truly will be the beloved child of the purest white rose, and the melodious, solitary nightingale.

Christine stirs slightly in her sleep and shifts uneasily onto her side. In her movement, her hand drops open and falls, limply, over the edge of the bed. Like the passing of a cloud over the sun, I suddenly feel chill and darkness creep back into my soul… It is a long moment before I feel the courage to grasp her outstretched fingers and face the garish, black bruise that still clings to her ivory wrist.

"Christine…" I whisper softly to myself.

So much happiness has filled my life since my return to the reality of our existence together… So much happiness, that I've fought off any possible memories that I might have had of the past three months.

There is still darkness there, in the back of my mind. As dark as the swollen veins that cover my half-healed forearms… and as dark as that singular reminder of near brutality that scowls at me from the delicate image of her wrists.

"_Stop it, Erik… please…" she shouts from the blurred regions of those hateful memories. "You're not yourself, Erik. You would never hurt me…"_

I wouldn't, Christine… I would never hurt you… Never… I would rather walk through fire and acid myself, if it only meant that I could save you the smallest amount of pain… Christine… I, myself, would NEVER hurt you… But at that moment… that terribly moment that I can recall only in petrified glimpses… I was not myself…

I grasped your wrists… I held you down against the cold, polished wood of the door… I felt my own strength elevated by the effects of that damned drug. I held you… I squeezed your fists in mine until you screamed… I saw your eyes widen through a veil of black horror… I felt your blood pounding next to mine until for a moment I thought that you had disappeared into thin air.

I hurt you that night, Christine… I did the one thing that I have done to so many, but that you trusted I would never do to you… I hurt you, Christine…

I watch her sleeping now, and recall the tearful smile she granted me when I first realized the source of her bruises.

"_It wasn't you, Erik" she said softly. "I have to believe… I DO believe, that it wasn't you…"_

"You're right, Christine" I whisper to her sleeping form.

I lean gently to kiss her cheek before blowing out the flickering candles at her bedside.

"It wasn't me… nor will it ever be again…"

A delicate, white rose lies before me… delicate in appearance, yet strong enough to have endured at least one, thundering rainfall.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty Six

Christine

The weather has turned cold here in London. Heavy fogs settle themselves lazily atop the steel grey cobblestone roads that line the heart of this fair city. The rain came early last month, and soon dissolved into flurries of feather-light snow, which now blankets the city, giving, more than ever, the impression of a magical land, coated in sugar and faerie dust. It is cold outside, but I do not feel cold.

Old bruises have healed, and as Christmas approaches, so does the birth of our own little angel.

It is barely daybreak – my favourite part of the morning – and the sun has yet to fully penetrate the thick layer of icy clouds, and the ground is still sparkling with the dust of a new snowfall.

Erik is sleeping for once. I always knew that my husband had little need for such basic human needs as regular sleep, but lately it seems he has had absolutely no rest at all. This does not seem to bother him in the least. In fact, it is as though he fears rest for anyone but me for much more than an hour or two a day.

He watches over me constantly, tending to every need he could anticipate that I would have. Even Peggy ahs grown tired of telling him to sit still and not to worry. He does though – worry that is. He worries constantly about just about everything. He is so careful around me that anyone would think that I was made of delicate crystal and could be shattered with even the most innocent noise or misplaced movement.

It is touching though, to see him care so passionately – especially since there was a time when I doubted whether he could even care at all for this child whom he seemed to fear above all else.

He is still afraid, I am sure. Perhaps it is fear that dries him to be so cautious around me. I know those fears that he has. Fears which he will not admit to me, nor even to himself.

He is, deep down, still petrified that whatever evil has ever resided in him will ultimately shine, clear as day, upon the face of this child. He thinks of me as burdened by this fate, that somehow he has sentenced me to death and can think of no way of saving me other than to wait on me hand and foot. Yes, I know his fears, even if he cannot bring himself to address them.

I turn from my seat at the window and glance at the door to his room. He has been sleeping with his door open for months now. There have been several occasions when I've awoken in the middle of the night from a restless nightmare. I never remember calling out for him, but each time, Erik is at my side within seconds. On the rare occasion that he does sleep, he seems to do so lightly, and keeps the door open, ready to dash to my room if he detects even so much as a sporadic breath from my throat.

I get to my feet, slowly, and scribble a short no t with the small pad of paper and quill that lay on the coffee table. Peggy won't be awake for another hour or so, and I'd rather leave the house quickly, before Erik wakes and objects. Today may be my only chance to venture into town, alone, before Christmas.

It is much more difficult to move stealthily in my condition. Every footfall seems to resound around the cavernous drawing room as if it were a thunder clap.

Finally, after several hurried moments to retrieve my cloak and purse, I step silently over the snow-covered threshold. I pause here for a moment, half expecting to feel strong hands grab hold of my shoulders and pull me back as if the outside world were, in fact, a deadly pit, which I stand, treacherously, on the edge of.

A chill breeze rushes at my face and rustles my cloak, causing it to flap back against the door, as if the wind too were trying to usher me back inside. Defiantly I step forward onto the road and journey through the glistening silver mounds of snow, towards the barely awakening shops of the city.

I know this journey well, for Erik and I travelled it often before the weather turned cold. We always went for our walks early in the morning or late at night, for Erik's sake. Although many of the people around town have grown accustomed to seeing his cloaked, and hooded form, Erik is still incredibly wary whenever we are outside of the house, always seeming to stay close to the buildings and away from the street, as though the dark shadows protect him and I both from the prying eyes of society.

My destination is only a few short blocks into the maze of shops and downtown residences. It is a small store with dusty windows and the smell of wood and old parchment. This is one of our regular haunts that we often entered despite the presence of the shopkeeper Mr. Ingles, and his wife. The couple are kind, however, and never have anything but a gentle word for Erik or I.

Their business is that of repair and refurbishment of antique instruments, as well as the collection of rather rare and priceless musical scores from around the world. We've often shopped here in search of material to challenge my own vocal range and inspiration for Erik's composition. We've spent hours searching through this treasure trove of musical history, and uncovered many wonders that have lead to the development of our own rather marvellous collection.

Today, however, I am not interested in the inimitable stylings of Indian or Chinese musicians. Today, I have my eye set on something distinctly French, with a fiery past that should have been its own doing.

I found the score for _Don Juan Triumphant_ months ago when Erik and I, were in looking at a collection of Eastern European ballets. I said nothing when I spotted it, but quietly asked Mr. Ingles if he would set it aside for me to buy later. With a wink, the old man wrapped the score carefully in tissue paper and stored it safely under the countertop.

After a few more visits, and several whispered discussions while Erik was busy browsing, I learned that this was the only remaining copy that had survived the fire at the Opera Populaire. Mr. Ingles, himself bought the score at an auction in France, and brought it back to his shop the following week.

I did not tell him exactly what my interest was in the piece, although I'm certain that he has heard enough rumours through his trade, to guess the true identities of his two avid customers. He has never said anything on the topic though, always responding to my questions with a knowing wink and a warm smile, and never any questions.

I enter the shop now, just as Mrs. Ingles unlocks the door and lights several of the gas lamps that line the walls and cabinets. Warmth and comfort seem to emanate from every shelf and panel of this remarkable store, and I'm grateful to, once again be inside.

"Christine!" exclaims Mrs. Ingles, brushing a few snowflakes off of my shoulders. "What on earth are you doing out this early? Surely it's not safe for a young lady in your condition to be roaming the frozen streets before sunrise!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Ingles" I say gently, trying to avoid any further scrutiny. "Is your husband up yet?"

"I'm right here" says a voice from behind a curtain near the cashier counter.

The lengths of fabric part, and a hunched, but pleasant looking, elderly man steps into view.

"Hello, Christine. I suppose you've come for your little treasure, have you?"

Thankfully nothing more is said from either of the shopkeepers about my presence in the world so early in the morning. Mr. Ingles slowly reaches under the counter and retrieves the thick bundle of parchment, bound securely with a red, velvet ribbon.

I palm the package, running my fingers over the rises and falls of the ink on the slightly yellowed parchment. Several spots on the edges show signs of burning, but as if by the grace of God, the rest is in remarkably good condition, considering what it survived.

"_I have written you an opera… Here I bring the finished score, Don Juan Triumphant…" _

Hollowed footfalls echo in my ear as I recall the moment that I first lay eyes on this work… I had been so frightened of him then, of the power that his creation had over audiences… over me.

Returning to the present, and the warm shop in which I stand, I slowly reach for my purse to pay for this artefact. Before I can lay the coins on the counter, however, I feel Mr. Ingles' grizzled hand over top of mine, gently pushing the payment away.

"It is I, who should be paying you, Madame, for having stocked this item in the first place." His voice is not accusatory or harsh, but gentle and kind, as always. "Your husband is quite a musical genius, Christine. I would hate to have seen this brilliance destroyed forever."

My hand is suddenly trembling underneath his as our eyes meet.

"Thank you, sir" is all I can manage to say.

I hope that through my wavering voice, the old shopkeeper can interpret how much his gesture actually means to me. I cannot fully express this to him now, but someday, I promise myself to make it up to him.

Few words are spoken between us as Mr. Ingles carefully wraps the sheaf of paper and hands it to me. I step out into the lightening morning just a few moments later and set off back towards home.

The sun has risen slightly higher, shortening the shadows among the tall grey buildings around me. My breath comes in icy, white puffs as I tuck the document safely under my arm and continue up the street. Perhaps I shall even be home before Erik or Peggy wake up. Hopefully then, I will have a chance to slip the package away before the interrogation comes.

I can only imagine the outcry from both Peggy and Erik if they discover I've been out at five in the morning on the snowy streets of London. Smiling, I round a corner, stepping momentarily through a dark patch of shadows from a low hanging gable above.

Suddenly, and without warning, I feel a sharp pain in my scull and tumble towards the ground before even realizing what happened. My first thoughts are that I've carelessly walked into a low window ledge, but the shadowy movements above me suggest something far more sinister than simply a clumsy misstep.

Through a blur of colour and light, I turn weakly onto my back, struggling to stare upwards at the looming face above me. The smell of alcohol is thick in the air.


	27. Chapter 27

A/N: Alright, let's take stock here shall we?... Candles? – check. PJ's? – check. Hazelnut flavoured coffee? – check. Drunk people playing on the swings behind my house? Huh!... Umm… Anyway… Blanket? – check. Dog? (Calls for dog.) – check. Glasses?... Crap, I knew there was some reason why everything was blurry. (Runs to get glasses, momentarily leaving candles, dog, and more importantly, hazelnut flavoured coffee unattended… I know it's not that bright…) – okay, check… Good, looks like we're ready to write… here it goes, folks!

PS: Thank you all SOOOOOO much for your lovely comments! Much appreciated.

Chapter Twenty Seven

Raoul (Ooooh! I bet you're all starting to think now, aren't cha! Don't hate me Fop haters, I too detest this annoying, long-haired dork, but his character is essential.)

The cold English wind slaps meddlesomely against my cheeks as I stroll briskly down the snow covered streets of London. The air is different here – not crisp and clear like our good Parisian atmosphere, but thick and dense, almost as if a cloud hangs over the entire city. I've been here only a week, on business errands for my brother, and already I ache to return, once more, to France and the quiet life that I live there.

"The De Chagny's do not live their lives as hermits, shut up amongst books and papers all day!" shouted my brother once. "We are of reputable name and are, therefore, expected to be at least sociable with those who keep us in our place in this city!"

With that insufferable nagging as more than initiative, I was obliged to attend to, at least this one, social errand on behalf of my brother's incessant complaining. London, after all, is not _that_ bad. Although the food may be somewhat repulsive, the people are kind and the hospitality is marvellous.

I've kept myself fairly occupied in between the long succession of balls and social appointments that my brother has laid out for me. I read a fair amount, and drink of course, but most of all, I've enjoyed these solitary, morning excursions around the city.

If only Christine could see me now – compared to a hermit by my own brother! Oh, I admit it, my life is an independent one – far from what I'm sure Christine had imagined it would be… yet I am definitely at peace with this new found solitude.

I do not blame Christine for the way things turned out. I have no doubt that she probably believed me to turn around and be engaged once more within a month. God knows there were plenty that would have taken me. I don't think that she ever, truly realized exactly what she meant to me… I did love her… so much so that once I realized that I never truly could have her, I fell rather comfortably into a peaceful life of detachment from most of society. Sometimes, I believe, we are only meant to love once, and no matter how brief that love is, rightly, it is all we ever will, and ever should be allowed to have.

I've accepted this thought… embraced it… used it as a theme for my life even. So much so, that I can no longer take notice of the pang of loneliness that may someday come knocking at my heart.

God only knows how ironic this all seems to me… I, the Viscount De Chagny, handsome and young, am accepting a life of self-proclaimed social exile, where as Erik… Erik… ugly and disfigured still holds the heart of the one, true love of both of our lives… At least to my knowledge, that is. Christine vanished from Paris ages ago, with a swiftness that I have come to attribute only to that disappearing Phantom.

Through the hard leather of my boots, I begin to feel the moist coldness of the blanketed snow underfoot. Turning swiftly through a patch of morning fog, and onto a darkened alley, I begin to strengthen my step in hopes of warming my feet a little more rapidly.

A bird coos softly overhead, its beautiful voice echoing stilly around the deserted path. It is several moments before I am able to discern the second high pitched noise from the dense air.

With sudden dawning comprehension, I recognize the sound as the shrill, yet slightly muffled cry of a woman – a woman who is screaming as if on the brink of death itself. Then, with a sudden rapidity that I would have thought incapable of any mortal creature, the struggled cry cuts to silence… dead silence.

My pulse races through my veins as I surge ahead through the icy air, searching frantically…. Somewhere, there is a woman in trouble, and despite my disbelief in broken romanticism, the chivalrous instincts that have always fought against me, seem to surface once more.

There – there, just ahead at the end of this alley… She's so still… There is no one else around, no sign of her attacker. As I draw closer, my heart pounding in my chest, I begin to take further notice of the silent, broken form.

"My God, this woman is pregnant…" I pant under my breath… What kind of monster would attack a…

Suddenly, my thoughts are cut short and my mind dawns as blank as the monotone snow beneath me. My eyes come to rest, for the first time in ages, upon the sickly pale face of Christine Daee.


	28. Chapter 28

Thank you all so much for your lovely comments. Sorry it's been so long but hopefully this will tide you over until next time!

Chapter Twenty Eight

Erik

The streets outside have cold stillness to them, but nothing compared to the inexplicable feeling of desertion that seems to fill this house as gas fills a balloon. As I lay still, over the silken sheets on my bed, I cannot fully comprehend this irrational feeling of superstition.

I know only that, upon waking up a moment ago, I had a sudden jolt of fear penetrate my body… a sudden, startling presence in my mind that claws relentlessly at my brain.

I have been dreaming… This is, in and of itself, unusual as I never dream. This, I suppose, is one of the survival tactics that I've taught myself over the years. A dreamless sleep, not only, allows me freedom form the haunting fantasies of the night that plague most people, but it also ensures that I still remain close to the surface of reality, even when sleeping. I've trained myself to be mentally aware of my surroundings, even when I am physically detached from them.

Perhaps I am inhuman for possessing such an ability, but despite what normal people might say about it, this instinct has ultimately kept me alive through otherwise disastrous situations. Not only that, but it enables e to be there in a flash, if I am ever needed by Christine…

It was the contents of this dream, too, that bring obvious distress to my heart… perhaps it is only my lack of dreams on a regular basis that did this, but every second of it seemed far too real to be natural.

Silence cascades across the floor, and creeps through the dark rectangle that is the open doorway to the hall beyond.

With sudden, inexplicable urgency, as if a cold wind were pushing me forwards, I slide out of bed and rush into the hallway.

Downstairs, Peggy stands quietly by the stove, waiting for a kettle to boil.

"Where's Christine?" I ask with a voice so full of worry, that I hate to attribute it to myself.

"I don't know, Sir. She's not in her room?"

I do not need to check her room to know that I will find no one inside. Instinct and fear are much stronger detectors than sight or reason.

An urgent pounding suddenly penetrates the sleepy stillness of the house. The noise resounds like thunder through the hallway, but seems to take its time traveling through my ears and into my brain…

I do not recall how I arrived at the front door, or how I managed to receive my wounded wife from the stranger who stood outside of it, or how a doctor and several policemen suddenly made their way into our presence. I remember nothing of these first, whirlwind moments of initial realization that Christine, is indeed, in a position of danger, from which I can do nothing to protect her.

Moments later, however, when I finally turn to face the enshadowed stranger who arrived, carrying Christine, I come back to my senses fully.

Fifty years of hatred spins suddenly in a whirl of adrenaline. I feel his blood pumping desperately under my clenching fingertips as he struggles, fiercely, against the wall to which he is pinned.

"You…" comes a voice from somewhere in the vicinity of my own throat.

I feel absolutely nothing in my entire being except purest loathing for the man I see before me.

Whatever happened to Christine, whatever it is, HE DID IT! He's responsible, he did it, he did it, he DID IT!

"Erik…" he gasps hopelessly as I grasp his neck tighter still.

How dare he speak my name? How dare he even think he as the right to…?

"Erik… Erik don't!" pleads a second, shrill, yet powerful voice from the doorway.

Peggy, along with several policemen, begin to claw urgently at my arms, as if they could pry me away from the prey that I hold before me… I take no notice to any of them. Their blows are merely soft whips of air, and their shouts, only a howling breeze. Then… suddenly, through the din:

"Erik…"

The weakest of these voices, somehow is the only one with the power to penetrate the almost indestructible wall of hatred that surrounds me.

As quickly as it appeared, the hatred dissolves into emotions still stronger and exponentially as painful.

"Erik…"

Even her beautiful, angelic voice seems broken and crushed as her frail body.

"Erik… don't…"

A strong, yet gentle touch falls to my arm as I try to kneel closer to her side. I do not need to turn around to recognize Peggy's comforting, yet incessant plea…

"Erik, we need to let the doctors help her… please come outside."

Whatever superhuman strength I had built up inside of me seconds ago, it is not gone. I feel myself turning away from her huddled form, as though I were a mere puppet, and Peggy the master.

Through the salty haze that enshrouds my vision, our eyes meet from opposite sides of the room. Her mouth does not move at all, and yet I hear her voice echo clearly in my head.

"It's not me that you must fight for now…"

A door closes.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty Nine

Erik

From opposite sides of the room, I can still feel eyes upon me. Dozens of eyes, burning into me as they have done all my life… For the first time, however, I conclude their reasons for staring at me are not immediately to do with the pearl-white mask on my face, but for some other reason instead.

If Christine were only aware of this unexpected leap forwards in my personality, she would probably beam with pride and proclaim that I am finally able to put my insecurities behind me… If she were here…

Horribly, the reason for the wandering eyes of the team of police officers, is worse, in this instance, than their curiosity as to what lies beneath my mask, ever was. Ironically, it is on this tragic night that society finally chooses to look on me, not as a monster, but as a man… A man whose wife lays in a condition of unknown severity… Tonight, those eyes look on me out of pity… Disgusting pity that I have fought to avoid for my entire life…

_He_ is still here too… and above all else, it is the inexplicable sympathy of this handsome, young man that burns me the most. From my place in the corner, I can glimpse tears in his eyes… brave, yet sensitive tears that, somehow, have no effect on this flawless face… tears that, despite the hurricane of emotion that whips through my soul, I cannot cry.

How dare he cry for my wife! How dare he mourn her as I ought to be able to! Even after all of this time apart, anyone oblivious to the situation would still assume HIM to be the husband and expectant father… Anyone would think…

The sudden click of her bedroom door banishes these thoughts from my head as Dr. Clawson enters the room. His face is solemn and his steps are weighted as he slowly approaches.

"Erik… this will be very hard."

Dr. Clawson was one of the first people that Christine and I met when we came here, besides Peggy, that is. Although our friendship is relatively new, I've learned in this short period of time that for each of this man's simple words, there are a dozen complex and burdening thoughts behind them.

The room around us steadily drains of the collection of people, until only the doctor and I remain.

"Was she raped?" I blurt out suddenly.

The thought has been circling my brain since the moment I registered her condition, but until now, I haven't been able to bring myself to voice it.

Dr. Clawson's eyebrows furrow in concentration as he, once again, chooses his words.

"No… No, Erik, she wasn't…"

Relief…. Absolute relief floods my entire being. So much so, that I can barely discern the next words from the doctor's mouth.

"… but her injuries are… serious… very serious…"

Thought suddenly seems unable to penetrate my brain…

"What are you saying…?"

The man, in a sudden act of weakness that oughtn't to be allowed in his profession, sits wearily across from me. In his hand, he holds a yellowed sheaf of paper.

"She was carrying this…"

My arm moves without the consent from my brain, as I slowly reach for the tattered musical score of _Don Juan Triumphant._

I feel no surprise from this sudden appearance of my life's work… only terrible self-loathing that I ever brought into existence, a document that Christine would someday suffer for. My mind wants nothing more than to tear the pages to shreds… but my heart knows that, somehow, this gesture would be almost as bad as tearing her apart with it. Instead, I place the score neatly on the table beside me, touching it as little as possible, as if it were a cursed document of powerful evil.

"Erik…" comes that slow, patient voice again.

I do not look up.

"If the baby is going to live, I'm afraid that she will have to deliver soon… before it's too late."

Again, my mind seems to lock itself against any form of comprehension.

"What do you mean, 'before it's too late'?"

"Erik… Christine…"

"No…"

No, no, no, no, no, no, NO! I will not listen, I will not hear it!... She is alive… and she is going to be fine… she's going to be fine…

"…she's going to be fine…" I plead helplessly with myself.

Through the thunder in my head, and the lightening in my heart, his voice, once again, breaks through… soft and gentle…

"No, Erik… she will not be fine. If we act now, she'll be able to deliver the baby, but…"

"No…"

"Erik… Christine…"

A tear streams down his face…

"…will die…"


	30. Chapter 30

Hi guys... This is the second to last chapter, so I hope you'll enjoy...

Thank you for all of your comments and erm... Aratari? I can't tell if that's a really nasty insult or a really really nice compliment! Anyway hope this is okay...

Chapter Thirty

Erik

"Erik… she's dead"

She's dead… she's dead…

Two words… two syllables… Who would have thought that two such simple words could emanate such a power over a human soul…?

She's dead…

She's dead…

She… is… dead…

Power that once, I thought only music could capture correctly…

She's dead…

She's dead…

She… is… dead…

An extraordinary soul, plucked from the world by an altogether too ordinary crime…. a drunk… a drunken rioter of common existence…

I was sitting alone in the corner of the parlour… I hadn't moved from that spot the entire night. Though I wasn't able to be with her as she struggled to hold onto life long enough to grant our daughter her existence, I wanted to be as close to her as I could…. Perhaps "want" is the wrong word… I wanted nothing of the horrid, agonizing screams that infiltrated my head from the room beyond… I did not _want_ to witness Christine's suffering…. I _needed_ to…

Her screams filled the night for what seemed like days… I felt the sun set on our house, and then endured, quite literally, the darkest period of my life…

I have always been accustomed to the darkness… It's where I've felt safe since I was a small boy. That night, however, the black shadows that surrounded me, gave me no comfort… In fact, for the first time, I think I felt that irrational superstitious twinge of fear that most other men feel from the dark confines of the night… It was a normal instinct… but not for me. Erik does not fear darkness… Erik does not fear death… but on that night, I experienced mortal pain and horror that I dread to think any other man on earth should ever suffer.

And then there was silence.

A total… undeniable silence fell over the house, binding the darkness to its lack of humanly noises and sucking any sense of hope or faith into its jet black vacuum of terror.

I stopped breathing in that moment… I stopped living in that moment… I… stopped…

The door opened and a single sliver of blinding white light escaped that room where destiny had conspired and schemed along side her bed.

"Erik… she's dead."

The kindly physician was then faceless to me… A black shadow in a black room… carrying a small bundle of angelic white…

She's dead… she's dead… she… is… dead…

He said nothing as he slowly lowered the delicate bunch of sheets into my arms.

Her face was… perfect… Small and white, uncreased by the expressions of agony that I, myself, felt in my heart… Somehow, I assumed that the child would be screaming, as if the sheer human will of a newborn soul could bring its mother back.

There was no scream on this child's face… no silent agony… no remorse… no knowledge of what her existence had caused…

I wanted so much to blame this child… If she had never been born… if she did not exist… her mother would still be alive…

I argued these thoughts in my head time and time again while my wife lay dying in the room beyond that door… But at that moment, with her child in my arms, I knew that blame was a burden that I could never lay upon the soul of this child… this small, delicate flower… this red rose that was never meant to be…

She's dead… she's dead… she… is… dead…

The shadowy black man who had brought her to me left the room, and I was alone in the darkness once more… alone… but not alone…

Since that moment of silence I could feel ice creeping into my heart once more. That familiar frozen chill that I once believed was my own damned soul… Then I met her, and I began to melt. She warmed me… revived me… brought me to life… With her gone, it was as if the fire had been extinguished, and I was left without her touch to sustain my life…

In the child, however, flickered a tiny glint of that warming love. She was so small… so incredibly small, and so unaware… of me…

I do not remember removing my mask, only the thought that the child had not yet opened her eyes… She did not know me as the mother had. She did not know the horror…

I knew that night, that if I touched her skin with my finger, she would die from the cold. I did not touch my child at all… simply relished the warmth of her mother that was slowly ebbing away from me like water. The child possessed that warmth as well… but I could not keep holding on to it. Soon I would drain all of that heat out of her with my frozen body, and she too, would be left as dead as both of her parents.

Hours went by… and then days… and after one week, I faced my daughter at last, unaccompanied by the white mask that hid my blackness from the world. When she looked up at me, I expected her to scream… scream like everyone else had… but she didn't. Her reaction was the same as her mother's had been… the only other person in the world whom I had known not to scream. There was no sympathy or pity or fear in that child's face, only her mother's kind love that I had come to know far too well.

I looked for the first time into the eyes of the child. For a moment, I was certain that it was my distorted imagination that made me see what I saw, but after an hour's study and reassurance, I accepted it as truth.

This child's face was not perfect after all. True, her skin was completely unblemished, her features flawlessly constructed… but her eyes… her eyes. One was a piercing, illuminating blue… and the other a dark, mesmerizing brown. This strange characteristic gave her a slightly lopsided, and yet, not altogether uncharming look.

I reached into my pocket and withdrew the small, delicate golden chain, with the glistening red rose on the end of it. The good Daroga was wise in choosing such a gift to bestow upon my wife… it would live on, once more in the literal red rose that would, forevermore carry it.

A door opened, slowly, behind us, and the boy entered. He stood solemnly on the threshold, barely moving… his hair in place, and his suit crisp, his face grave…

"Are you sure this is what you want, Erik?"

His voice was soft, with just the right amount of sympathy to make the parting a lot more painful.

"I've already told you it is… she will be safe with you… she will be happy with you."

"You do not have to do this, Erik"

"It is the way it was meant to be… take her… forget me…"

As she left my arms for the last time, the final wisp of warmth that I had clung to since her mother's death, deserted me, once and for all. The final layer of ice bound my soul at last, impenetrable to all else in the world.

The door closed, the world turned, and the years passed, but I never felt warmth in my soul again after that moment… Until now…

I stand now, allowing myself to remember for the first time in many years the horrible past that I've denied for so long. You cannot see me, but I can see you. Fog envelops the waiting carriage where you sit solemnly as your supposed father kneels beside a grave…

"Vicomtesse De Chagny, Beloved wife and mother…"

You cry for the mother you never knew, and sympathise with the only father that you ever did.

You are a woman now, beautiful and talented. I've followed your career close enough to ensure that you find yourself in the best of company when it comes to instruction and opportunity, but even without me as your secretive Angel of Music, you have grown to be a woman of unequalled talent. Your family of aristocrats and noblemen worship and dote on you, as they should, but know also that there will always be a singular heart that, although unknown to you, will always be with you… a solitary nightingale that will sing his praises to you as far as heaven's gate and beyond.

Night is coming quickly, my darling and with it, I must go… in darkness you came to me… and in darkness you left…


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

A Song

Doubt is a terrible feeling - especially when there is a life resting on the decision that you doubt making. I made a decision, and now after so many years, I feel the cold pang of doubt knock against my heart like a mourning bell. I've nearly driven myself mad trying to justify the actions that I took so many years ago, here in this room… this silent room. But somehow… those decisions don't matter now… not now at the end. It's gone too far…

_Passed the point of no return…_

Decisions were made, and a life was altered… a life… in this room… in this silent room…

The air seems thin here, where once it was dewy with emotions so much more mysterious than the pure emptiness that now surrounds me. The sheets are still soft, and in my mind I can almost convince myself that her scent still lingers here… here… in this room… in this silent room.

_I'm here…_

Stutter, shiver, stutter…

"An extraordinary life…" they will someday say… "An extraordinary man." But the very ordinary mortality of life still binds me to death as it does any man… any creature.

Shiver…

I have existed on this planet for many years… but only lived for two or three… In those few precious years when I knew her, and when my darkness was fully shattered by her piercing notes of life, I was given enough understanding of what it is to live, to maintain my existence until now and not digress to the weakness of a deeper darkness than I have ever dwelled in…

_Angel of music…_

"I will join you…"

_I'm here…_

Stutter…

Here in this room… in this silent room… here… here…

How can this end? What closure could finally befall this beautiful story?

_Wishing you were somehow…_

…She calls me softly...

…_Somehow you would be…_

Somewhere… she's here, hiding…

Shiver…

In the end, what is left? Who will remember the truths within these lives?... No one… And perhaps that's the true beauty of the story… It was not meant to be loved, hated, pitied, or studied… Truth grows deeper than any of that… and love even further under the depths of understanding… Forget me… you wouldn't understand anyway…

_Silent tears…_

Black despair…

Stutter…

_I'm here…_

I understand now… I know the final diminuendo of the opera of my life… I die alone… In this room… in this silent room…

_I'm here…_

Alone… but not alone…

And now the light is waning and the conductor slows his hand…

_Angel of music_

I will be with you…

_Angel…_

Angel of music…

Angel of…

Angel…


End file.
